


Unnatural

by Lavenderbreeze



Category: Chicago Fire, Supernatural
Genre: Chicago Fire - Freeform, Corratanvally, Crossover, Cu Chulainn - Freeform, Dog - Freeform, Drama, F/M, Firemen, Furries, Furry, Gen, Hurt, Impala, Kittens, Koala, Koala-Wolf, Laptop, Other, Ouzo, Raven - Freeform, Sarcasm, Spear, Supernatural - Freeform, Viagra, Windsor, Zombies, booze, crab, demon, diner, fries, hellhound, kickass, legend, raunchy, sam and dean - Freeform, sausage, wolf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavenderbreeze/pseuds/Lavenderbreeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of October, a strange string of unexplained murders laced through Detroit, spurring the Winchesters to race against the clock to solve them.</p><p>But, as they search desperately for answers complications arise, and Sam has to wonder; can he trust Dean?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnatural

It was late afternoon in the middle of October, and it was already dark.

Maggie had stuffed her knitted hat on her head, and pulled her backpack straps tight, before taking a deep breath, and shoving the door to the university library open.

This was always the worst part of the day; walking the nine blocks back home. It wasn't a good neighbourhood, and Maggie really wished that she had a car, or at least someone to give her a lift home.

Putting her keys between her fingers in order to create a makeshift weapon should she need one, Maggie walked with her head down, cursing the city for the lack of street lamps.

Maggie's steps faltered for a split second as she heard a gun go off, followed by the tinkling of glass.

"Idiots." She muttered to herself, watching the guys not that far off in the distance, wearing too baggy pants, shoot out another sodium vapour light.

Maybe the city had just given up on this neighbourhood, and was letting the citizens go back to gladiator times.

With five blocks to go, Maggie heard running footfalls behind her. She kept an even pace, tightened her grip on the keys and moved towards the road.

A man wearing nothing but sneakers and neon pink shorts ran past her, and Maggie breathed a small sigh of relief, before stomping on a leaf skittering across her path.

One of these days, she was going to move up in the world and live in a place where you don't have to fear for your life at every corner.

Pausing for the lights to change, Maggie heard a shrub to her left rustle.

She looked at it, and it rustled louder. "Nope." She said, jogging across the street. She wasn't some stupid person in a horror show. She wasn't going to get her head hacked off for sticking it in some stupid bush.

Her toes barely landed on the curb, when she felt someone grab her backpack, pulling her backwards.

Falling, Maggie leaned to the side and twisted on her left leg, ripping something in her calf.

She swung up over her shoulder with her right hand, the keys making sickening contact with her attacker's face. There was a howl of surprised outrage and agony.

The neighbourhood dogs joined in the cry with their baying.

Maggie wrenched herself free and looked at the other person, instantly regretting it.

The keys had badly ripped up the guy's face, and had popped an eye. She wanted to scream, but there was suddenly a hand over her mouth as she saw another person come into view.

A moment later, Maggie’s throat had been ripped out, her lifeblood spattering the nearby stripped car, the liquid steaming slightly in the chilly night air.

 

 

"Sausage burger." Dean said, looking at the menu that had been taped to the faded wooden table top. "Well... that... that just sounds, y'know, terrific." He made a face at Sam, who raised his brows as he perused the menu himself.

"Definitely." He agreed sarcastically, giving a slight sneer at the mention of the disgusting sounding menu option.

Reluctantly, Dean smiled at the young waiter, thinking that he probably would prefer a tofu burger to this, and ordered a sausage burger anyway. "And a cherry coke." He added.

"How are the cinnamon buns?" Sam asked warily, clearing his throat, and crossing his legs.

He hadn't had a decent cinnamon bun in such a long time, and though he hoped that this dingy little place had some, he wasn't counting on it.

"They sell like hotcakes around here." The waiter answered, tapping his pencil against his lips.

Dean shrugged at Sam, who decided not to risk it. If these people couldn’t even manage a simple burger, then what hope was there of having a fresh and tasty cinnamon bun?

Sam shook his head. "I think I'll just have water." He decided, and the waiter stared at him, slowly blinking, before turning and walking away.

Dean leaned on the table. "Well, I think we got a real winner, this time." He said quietly, smiling sarcastically.

"Yeah." Sam said noncommittally, pulling out his laptop and turning it on.

He looked around the establishment, despising the whole place.

It was filthy, the waiter was dumb, the table wobbly, and the food didn't seem promising in the least. Not to mention he was dead tired. He just wasn't in the mood for Dean's quips.

Just as Sam was about to say something, the waiter came back, dropping the cold food on the table and plopping the soda down in front of Dean. A few of Dean's fries fell onto the stained and less than sanitised table.

Dean picked up a fry, which dangled limply from between his fingertips. "Jeez, this needs Viagra." He joked, causing Sam roll his eyes at the attempt at humour, before searching the local online news articles.

"Yeah, that's mature." Sam remarked a little snappishly and giving Dean a bit of a look, before snagging a fry.

It was even less delicious than it looked, which was certainly saying something.

"Jeez!" Dean exclaimed, flicking the runny mayo from his hand and setting the sausage burger down and looking at it in disgust before prying it open, flinging the soggy top on the cracked plate.

"That... That is just wrong." He declared, frowning at the mess.

Sam gave him a look, and started to ask 'What do you expect from a place like this?', when something caught his eye on the computer screen, causing his words to falter.

He turned the laptop so that his brother could see, showing a particularly gruesome picture.

"Take a look at this." Sam said with interest, and Dean smiled tightly, gesturing between the screen and his lunch. "Yeah, that and this... I don't think my appetite is ever coming back." He sighed, wiping his hands furiously with a paper napkin.

Dean groaned, eyeing the picture unhappily. "What the hell is that, anyways?" He demanded, reading the site's name. "Morbyd Tymes? Great. Who made this, a freakin' twelve year-old?"

"Seventeen year-old, apparently." Sam answered, pointing at the description in the upper left corner.

There was a picture underneath the block of text of a temperamental looking kid wearing some kind of bizarre mascot costume and way too much eye makeup.

The photo was black and white, and had been put through way too many filters to look even halfway decent.

"Wait, wait. An Aromantic, Pandimensional Koala-Wolf furry? 'Zir' pronoun preferred?" He looked at Sam in total bewilderment. "What the hell is this? Is it some sort of role-playing thing, or what?"

Sam, though, looked just as confused. "Your guess is as good as mine." He replied, shrugging. "It's definitely odd."

The waiter headed back their way, and Sam flicked to a new tab before their waiter noticed the gory images gracing the laptop's screen.

"Is there anything else?" He asked, taken aback by the uneaten sausage burger. "Is there something wrong with your burger, Sir?"

Dean shot a look at Sam, who started closing the laptop and grabbing his jacket in preparation to leave, before Dean turned towards the pimply faced waiter. He knew the drill.

"This, this is the most disgusting, putrid thing that I've ever even partially considered eating." He said, interlocking his fingers on the table. "And I've eaten a lot of crap in my life, so that is actually saying something." He picked up the napkin and used it to push the tiny plate towards the waiter. "You can have that back."

Sam looked a touch entertained at this, waiting for the server's response.

"Well, Sir, we have never had any complaints in the past. People come in here and they just hork it back." The waiter stated haughtily.

Dean got up, and towered over the waiter. "Well, Marcie, you've got your first complaint." He patted the kid on the shoulder as he walked past. "Congrats."

Sam gave the waiter a shrug and a pat on the shoulder, before following his brother out the door.

"Hey! You guys can't just leave without paying!" The waiter exclaimed, but Dean just blew out the door, never looking back.

 

 

After driving a few blocks, Dean looked at Sam to explain the photo. "So, Morbyd Tymes." He said to Sam, shrugging.

"Uh, yeah." Sam replied, opening the laptop again to view the darkly coloured web page. "Apparently, there has been a string of pretty nasty murders. The skeletons seem to have been removed entirely, while the rest of the body is left intact.” He told Dean, before correcting himself. “Well, except for the slashed out throat."

Dean nodded. "Weird." He said, turning the corner. "Where?"

"Near the university." Sam told him, reading a bit more of the description. "Maybe we should give this guy a call, maybe get a lead from it. Since he seems to know so much about things."

Dean looked at him. "Yeah, let's go talk to the mugwomp, furrykin, whatever the hell it is." He drawled. "I'm sure they can point us down the right rabbit hole."

Sam sighed, his stomach noisily grumbling. "Fine, let's go over to the morgue." He said a bit shortly, noting the distinct sarcasm and stifling a yawn.

 

The hallways were festively decorated with mould green on white, the well-polished tiles the colour of old cigarette ash.

"Ugh." Sam grunted, looking at the walls in disapproval.

It looked as though the place hadn't been updated in decades and that the initial aesthetics weren’t exactly popular.

Dean tapped Sam and straightened up as an old, hunched over woman walked swiftly towards them. "May I help you?" She asked in a tone of voice that pretty much said that she rather walk barefoot up eight mile road.

Dean whipped out his new ID. "Malcolm Young, FBI." He said as Sam pulled out his own wallet to display his. "James Morrison." Sam told her with a nod, before tucking it back in his pocket.

The old woman's mouth popped open. "Oh, yeah. Like the singer. Rock out with your cock out, yeah." She said, making devil horns with her fingers.

Sam blinked in surprise, clearing his throat in discomfort, while Dean smiled with delight.

"Um, right...” Sam fidgeted, trying to brush the comment off. “Anyway, we're here to look at the woman who was brought in here the night before last." He told her, acting as though he were consulting his notes. "The one found on Livernois Avenue?"

The woman took a deep breath and genuflected.

"You mean the one who came in like jello?" She asked, making a grossed out face. She even looked a little faint.

"Yes, exactly the one we’re here to take a look at." Sam answered, nodding solemnly.

"Alright." She said. "Just let me return these files and I'll get Bertie. Just wait where you are, and he won't be but a moment."

As soon as the old woman was out of earshot, Dean leaned in. "I bet you weren't expecting that." He said in a stage whisper, grinning from ear to ear. "By the way, I think you've got a chance there."

Before Sam could say or do anything in reaction to his brother’s words, a man that was about 5' 3" in both height and circumference.

He wore a bright orange tie, old Larry King style glasses that were so thick that it looked like the man had mole eyes. He wore a tweedy type suit, and longish grey, curly hair that was pulled back into a loose ponytail.

Sam noticed that Bertie the coroner had differently coloured nail polish on each nail, as he shook hands with them.

"I understand you wanted to see Maggie?" He asked, and Dean knitted his brows.

"That's the woman who died on Livernois?" He asked to make sure.

"Yes, that would be she." Bertie replied in confirmation, looking sad and tilting his head slightly to the left.

"Did you notice anything unusual about the body, other than -” Sam began to ask, before being interrupted by Bertie.

"You mean besides her being deboned like the Sunday chicken?" He asked, looking at his watch.

"Yeah." Sam replied dryly, not really liking this man’s demeanour all that much.

"Well?" Dean prompted after a long lull in the conversation.

Sam looked at Dean, who subtly gestured to Sam to get Bertie to just spill it.

"We're on a bit of tight schedule, so if we could hurry this up." Sam said a little tightly, clasping his hands in front of himself.

"Well, you're not the only ones around here with something to do." Bertie told them matter-of-factly. "So, if you just follow me about five paces, and go through the door on the right hand side."

 

 

Once in the super clean room, Bertie went over to the refrigerated cabinet, and gave a mighty tug on Maggie's door, rolling out the metal tray.

"Jeez." Dean said, looking at what looked like a human pancake, as Sam stared down at the puddle of skin.

The corpse wasn't all messy, as it had been in the photo they saw on the web.

Instead, with it being washed, they could see the clean, precise incisions. The flesh had been so neatly pared from the bones, that on closer inspection, Dean couldn't see any real tears in the flesh.

"What kind of blade could do this?" Dean asked Bertie, before looking at the ripped out throat.

"Mmmmm. We did find one thing." Bertie said, sort of dodging the question. "We're not sure what it is or where it came from."

He merely stood and watched the brothers for a moment, until Dean became too impatient.

"Well? What did you find?" He prompted a bit pissily.

"Well, we found a bit of silver about an inch long; rather sharp teardrop shaped, located in the lower femur area, imbedded in the flesh." Bertie replied casually, looking at his watch again.

Sam observed the body, making some mental notes.

Dean sighed. "Can I see it?" He asked, gesturing towards Bertie. "The teardrop."

"Oh! You want to see it now?" Bertie asked, slowly walking to a locked cabinet, taking out his keys and unlocked it, before withdrawing a petri dish sealed with plastic wrap.

He handed it to Dean, asking "What do you make of it?"

Dean started to unwrap it as Sam came over to peer into the shallow dish.

Bertie took a lunging step towards Dean, grabbing the Petri dish and Dean's thumb, all in one move.

"It stays sealed!" Bertie proclaimed, as Dean struggled to get his thumb back.

"Dude, freakin' chill." Dean snapped, freeing himself and the petri dish. "Just need to get a closer look at it."

"Do I need to remind you that we are federal agents?" Sam asked authoritatively, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders.

Bertie huffed and slumped up against the cabinet in angry resignation.

Sam peeled back the plastic, and shook the container to look at the teardrop from all angles.

The thing looked like metal, but it didn't sound quite right as it slid around.

When he was done the visual inspection, Sam pulled out his phone and took several pictures, all from different sides of the object.

"What sorts of tests have been run on this thing?" Sam asked, looking over to the coroner.

"We have looked at it under the microscopes, and we've done an acid test on it." Bertie retorted indignantly. "And the results proved its metal, alright. Or at least, the best that we can figure."

Dean paused. "What does that mean?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"It means just that. It might not be pure, but it's pretty darn close." Bertie said.

Dean blinked. "Impure, how?" He asked, feeling that they were actually going to get somewhere with this guy.

"There are traces of proteins in it." Bertie declared.

"As in?" Sam questioned, his brow furrowing as he thought about this bit of new information.

Bertie walked towards the petri dish. "As in what you would find in hair, y'know, keratin, y'know." He said, snatching up the petri dish, putting the cover back on it, and returning it to the cabinet, making sure to lock it.

"Ok, well I guess that's all we're going to get." Sam commented, more to Dean than anyone else, seeing as how Bertie was ushering them to the door, before returning to put Maggie back in her drawer.

 

 

"What a freakin' douche." Dean muttered once they were back outside, rubbing his thumb.

"Yeah, I don’t know what was up with that guy." Sam agreed, brushing his hair back with his fingertips. "So what do you think that thing was?"

"Truthfully? Not a freakin' clue. But it looked like a fake nail; one of those cheap ones that fall off at a moment's notice." Dean answered, touching his stomach. "I'm hungry, let's get something to eat. We can gas up Baby while we're at it."

 

 

"I'll fill up, you go get the snacks." Dean stated, getting out of the car before ducking down. "Oh, and pie, I want pie."

Sam gently shook his head, before getting out of the car and stalking into the Gas 'n Sip.

He grabbed a large pack of pepperoni and cheese sticks, a couple of club sandwiches, beer, and a multipack of strawberry cheesecake strudels in lieu of pie.

Dean wouldn’t be happy with the lack of pie, but Sam couldn’t find any and he’d just have to deal with it.

He set his haul on the counter before glancing over at the newspapers, grabbing one of those too.

As the cashier started to ring things through, Sam picked up a package of sour belts and frowned at it contemplatively. "Are these any good?" He asked, and the cashier replied, "Hm, they might not be for everybody, but I personally like them."

Sam decided that he'd try them. He did have a sweet tooth, and the sour belts did look pretty damn good.

In fact, he picked out two packets.

 

 

He paid for the items and the fuel, before heading back to the car, tossing the bags onto Dean, who promptly started pawing through them.

"Where's the pie?" He demanded, frowning at Sam.

"They were out." Sam told him, knowing what was likely to come. "Strudels are pretty close, right?"

Dean froze, holding the plastic container. "No. No, they are not. They're German pastry. Pie is pie. Fuck it, it's the cake thing all over again."

Sam sighed tiredly. "Well, that's what they had. Take it or leave it." He told Dean, who grumbled.

They both knew that he'd eat it, just like everything else.

 

 

As Dean chowed down on his club sandwich, Sam practically made a meal of the sour belts, while continuing to research the latest case.

There was yelling in the motel room next to theirs, but they just ignored it.

"Anything?" Dean asked around a half mauled chunk of sandwich, absent-mindedly rubbing his right forearm.

"Not yet." Sam answered, navigating through a badly put together website.

Dean balled up his garbage, shooting it at the garbage can, throwing his hands up in triumph when it went in.

"Hey, how about that stupid... Morbyd Tymes? You want to check them out tomorrow?" He asked Sam, who looked up from the screen.

Sam’s eyes felt grainy, his body was crying out for sleep, and he was feeling a bit cranky.

"Might as well, we can go first thing." He agreed, glancing at the clock on the wall, noticing the late hour. "Should probably get some sleep."

"Yeah, 'spose so." Dean yawned, falling backwards onto the bed closest to the wall.

 

 

The next morning, Sam checked the computer over breakfast, surprised to find a new photo on Morbyd Tymes.

"What?" Dean asked, noting the wrinkles on Sam's forehead deepening.

"Got another one." Sam said thoughtfully, biting into a slice of buttered white bread.

"Same M.O.?" Dean asked, dumping hot sauce onto his food. "Ripped out throat, no bones?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Sam replied, navigating through the article. "Mid-30's white male; found dead over by the old Packard plant, no bones and a deep gash to the front of the throat. No signs of a struggle, going by the photos."

Dean perked up. "Packard plant?" He started beaming. "You mean... Packard Packard, Right?"

"What else would I be meaning?" Sam inquired, raising a brow, before taking a sip of water.

He couldn’t help but grin slightly at Dean’s enthusiasm.

Dean raised his arms, before going back to rub that spot on his forearm. "Well, come on, how many times do we get to see something this cool?" He asked, frowning. "A real slice of Americana." He paused. "What photos?"

Sam refrained from rolling his eyes, turning the computer to show his brother the rather gory pictures of the latest victim.

"These ones." He stated, before taking a swig of now room temperature water. He made a face, as the warmish liquid went down his throat.

Dean leaned in to take a closer look. "So, I guess this kid's the first one on our list today, huh?" He said, pushing the computer back to Sam.

"Yep." Sam intoned, giving Dean a bit of a worried look.

Dean had been rubbing at his right forearm, exactly where the mark was.

"You okay?" Sam asked cautiously, clearing his throat and getting to his feet to stretch his back.

Dean looked non-plussed "Why wouldn't I be?" He asked, leaning back and unconsciously rubbing the mark harder.

Sam looked down at Dean's right arm again, before giving Dean a look that conveyed precisely what he had meant.

Dean sighed and held up his hand. "Alright. I'm fine, never better, Sammy." He said deeply. "It's nothing."

"Yeah, sure." Sam said, rather unconvinced. "Look, if it does become something, you're going to tell me. Aren't you?" It was less of a question, really, but more of an order.

Dean grimaced and stood up as well. "You'll be the first to know." He announced, thumping Sam on the shoulder.

"Good." Sam told him somberly.

 

 

Vodka Jones sat in front of zir computer, working away on three different blogs almost simultaneously.

Zir fluffy purple tail draped down the back of zir chair, just grazing the floor, as zir educated some poor slob on their pronoun and why they absolutely must use it without fail.

The door chimed out, playing six chords of 'La Cucaracha'.

Vodka speared a cheese puff with a toothpick, stuffing it into zir mouth, ignoring the bell and putting on some MCR.

Raunchy, zir Chihuahua pug mix, looked up greedily, begging for a cheese puff.

"Nah." Vodka told the overweight dog, shooing it away.

The doorbell chimed again, as Raunchy slunk away, tail between its legs.

"Mo-oooooom! Will ya get that already?" Vodka bellowed forlornly, spraying a few crumbs on zir monitor and keyboard. "Now, look what you made me do..." Zir grumbled softly to zirself, brushing away the cheesy debris.

"What's a matter with you? You got two broken legs, Godfrey?" Came the answering yell. "I'm upstairs, cleaning your room!"

Vodka scowled angrily, rage coursing through zir upon hearing the name hoisted unwillingly upon zir at birth.

"My name is Vodka, STOP OPPRESSING ME!" Zir screeched in a tone filled with utter misery, face screwed up and turning crimson with the sheer effort of shouting so loudly.

"Read your damned birth certificate. It's says Godfrey right on it!" She shouted back as only a mother can.

Before Vodka could reply with anything else, the bell rang twice in rapid succession.

Zir got up, stomping over to the door from the family room off the kitchen, and yanking it open dramatically.

"Yeah?" Zir half-mumbled in a bored tone, sizing up the two men standing on the front porch. "What do ya want?"

Sam tried not to let his amusement and bewilderment show at Vodka’s outlandish appearance.

"We, uh, we'd like to talk to you for a few minutes, regarding the content on the blog you run; a 'Morbyd Tymes'?" Sam told the kid, who fiddled with zir slightly matted wolf-eared hat, before noticing zir artificial nails that resembled that of a koalas.

"Godfrey! Who's at the door, Godfrey?" Vodka's mother called down the stairs.

"Just a couple of old farts, how should I know!" Vodka shouted back with an edgy tone. "Give me a minute to find out, will you?!" Zir let out a heavy sigh. “Bitch.” Zir added with a snarl.

Vodka suddenly stomped zir foot, glaring at them both.

"Well, who the hell are you?" Zir asked in a dark tone, rubbing an eye and smudging the thick black eyeliner a bit more.

Just as Dean was about to announce who they were, the kid's mother put in a show, and introduced herself as Sally, Godfrey's mother.

"What can I do to help?" She asked them, looking tremendously worn out, as she eyed Godfrey almost suspiciously.

"They're not even here for you." Vodka sneered, rolling zir eyes and crossing zir arms. "Why don't you go have 'nother shot of booze and lay down for a while?"

Dean smiled tightly at Sally. "We're Agents Morrison and Young. FBI." He said, not looking forward to interviewing this kid.

Vodka's eyes widened for a moment in panic, wondering why on earth the FBI wanted to talk to zir.

Zir took a couple of steps backward, to permit zir mother to take the lead.

"Why don't you come into the kitchen? I was just about to have a coffee." Sally invited them in, before shooting Vodka a menacing look, which just dared the little bugger to interrupt.

Vodka took the hint, and clomped upstairs to zir bedroom, yanking closed the curtains that zir mother had opened, darkening the room almost completely.

Zir turned zir personal laptop on, and went onto Tumblr, starting up a new text post rant all about the trauma zir'd just experienced.

 

 

As Sally poured out coffee, she set a plate of chocolate biscuits down in front of her guests.

She took one of the smaller ones and gave it to Raunchy, who was dancing around their legs.

The dog promptly scarfed it back, very nearly choking at first, before sauntering away with his nails clicking on the floor.

Dean didn't notice either the dog or the cookies. He was busy mauling his forearm, which was actually starting to hurt from the mark. This was new, and it sure as hell wasn't good.

Sam noticed this, and internally worried.

He nudged Dean, giving him a 'you want to get out of here?' look.

If Dean wasn't up to this, then he needed to know now.

Dean shook his head, and took his hand off of his forearm, balling it by his side, just as Sally turned with her coffee.

"Are you aware of the website currently being run by your son?" Sam inquired gently, feeling deeply sorry for this poor woman.

"No." Sally answered a bit shortly. "He doesn't tell me anything now that he has reached that age."

Dean nodded, feeling for her. "Well, uh, maybe it's a phase, right?" He said, helping himself to a flower-shaped biscuit.

"Oh, man, I sure as hell hope so!" Sally said quickly, the tension palpable in her voice.

Sam nodded sympathetically.

"Your son's blog consists solely of photographic evidence of exceedingly violent crimes that have been committed. Nearly every image on the site has been taken before police arrived on the scene." Sam explained. "We'd like to talk to him, if that's alright with you."

"Is he... going to be arrested?" Sally asked hesitantly.

Dean shrugged. "It depends." He answered semi-truthfully. "By all appearances, your son's been getting to the crime scenes before anyone else. You gotta admit that that doesn't look too good."

"No it doesn't." Sally agreed seriously. "Are you thinking that Godfrey has done something...?"

"It's difficult to tell at this point." Sam answered her, eyeing the biscuits himself, but not taking one. “That’s one of the things we’re here to find out.”

"Could we talk to him?" Dean asked, feeling restless as he tried to ignore his arm.

"You can try." Sally said, leading them out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

She pointed at the closed door. "This is Godfrey's room." She told them. "I'll be downstairs, in the kitchen, if you need anything else."

 

 

There came a quick knock on the bedroom door, and Vodka shifted to look at it contemplatively.

"Who is it?" Zir asked guardedly, knowing who it had to be. Zir's mother knew better than to disturb zir while zir was in zir's room, unless it was an emergency.

"Candygram." Dean replied, scratching again.

"Piss off." Came the muffled response.

Dean gestured to Sam, telling him to try. He was fed up with the whole place.

Sam tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

He took out a nice little tool from his pocket, and easily picked the lock, letting them both in.

Vodka got to zir feet in complete offence as the door swung open, and the Winchesters walked inside zir room.

"Get the hell out of here, you have no right!" Zir yelled at them, baring zir teeth as zir mouth twisted down in an awful frown.

Dean pulled a couple of print outs from his pocket and practically shoved them in Vodka's face. "Want to tell me how you got these?" He asked, ignoring the protestations.

"Not really." Vodka told him obstinately, scoffing a little. Did these assholes honestly think zir was going to make things easy for them?

Sam shook his head, getting a better idea as to how much fun this was going to be.

"Spill it." He intoned harshly, taking a step forward. "Godfrey."

Vodka's eyes narrowed into slits, before zir spewed a stream of curse words at them both.

"You want information, go and get a fuckin' warrant or whatever." Zir commanded them roughly, hands on hips. “Until then, you can both go screw yourselves.”

An idea struck Dean. He shrugged as if he had no other choice, as he took out his handcuffs, his thumb obscuring the devil's trap on them.

"You have the right to remain silent." He started.

Vodka sputtered indignantly, pretty certain that they couldn’t do this to zir. Not yet, anyway.

"I haven't done anything, you can't arrest me." Zir said snidely. “There are rules you’ve got to follow, you know.”

"Tell it to the judge." Dean responded. "Anything you say can and will be held against you."

Vodka stalled.

"And what exactly are you arresting me for?" Zir asked, a little less calmly but still working on keeping up a confident front.

"Take your pick; obstructing justice, insulting an officer, withholding evidence, tampering with a crime scene... It goes on and on." Sam said tonelessly, watching the scene unfold.

It seemed as though they might just be getting somewhere with this twerp.

Vodka let out a sigh, which was much bigger than one might have expected, especially considering that his lung capacity was diminished from years of smoking.

"Look, I'll tell you a few things, okay?" Zir caved in dejectedly. "Put the cuffs away now, though, or else I'll keep it to myself."

Dean shot Sam a sidelong glance as he stuffed the cuffs into a pocket.

Vodka sat back down, looking resigned.

"What do you want to know?" Zir asked heavily, voice flat.

"Everything." Dean replied. "Start at the beginning."

Vodka shifted his gaze over to Sam, before turning his eyes back to Dean.

"Like what?" Zir asked stupidly, zir eyes glazing over. Zir really couldn’t figure out what they wanted to know.

"You've got all these photos of crime scenes; let's try where you got those." Sam chimed in, leaning against the wall.

"Submissions, mostly." Vodka shrugged. "I took a few of them myself, before calling the cops, but not many."

Dean held out the one of Maggie. "Did you take this one?" He asked, watching Vodka closely.

He was pretty sure that the kid was just a loser, but who knew anymore?

"I might have, why?" Zir asked evasively, jiggling zir leg as the caffeine from far too much coffee rushed through zir veins.

"Why the freakin' hell do you think?" Dean snapped, having had enough. "This woman wasn't just murdered by having her throat ripped out! No, she was mutilated in the middle of the street. Someone took their sweet time, slicing every last inch of her open, before ripping out her bones! Or does that sound like a good time to you?" Dean loomed over the kid, glowering down at him. "Does that sound like fun to you? Is that why you have your little website? So you, and your weirdo buddies can pretend what it's like slicing up somebody?"

Vodka blinked, not having expected such an outburst.

"Uh... No." Zir fibbed, fidgeting a little in zir seat. "Anyways, the cops have got to have photos of her on file, so why do mine matter so much?"

Vodka looked ever so slightly nervous, zir most well-kept secret so close to being exposed.

Dean heard the lie in the kid's voice, and he felt the rage just rush through him like someone opened the floodgates.

Sam cleared his throat, wondering if he’d have to end up trying to keep Dean from slaughtering this furry psychopath.

"Because yours were taken before theirs were, and might hold a vital key to finding the murderer." Sam tried, hoping that this brat would finally open up so that they could get out of there.

"What the hell's the matter with you anyway? Got a parasite or something?" Vodka sneered at Dean, who was rubbing at his arm yet again. "I'll bet you aren't even actual cops, just a couple of old dudes trying to get their kicks by messing with teenage boys."

"I say we throw him out the window." Dean declared. "He's small, we'll get good distance."

"It's zir, thank you very much!" Vodka huffed haughtily, feeling incredibly revved up. "Lousy cis-scum."

Dean smiled as he crouched, putting his face level with Vodka's, unsettling the furry.

"Listen, Godfrey," he said, suddenly grabbing the front of Vodka's fuzzy handmade suit. "I don't like you, but I suppose that's nothing new to you; I doubt much of anyone likes you. If I find out that you had anything, anything at all to do with this? I'm coming for you and there won't be no trial. There won't even be a freakin' funeral for you, you sick bastard."

Vodka swallowed, trying to downplay his nervousness.

"I'd listen to him." Sam pointed at his brother with a nod. “He doesn’t mess around.”

Vodka nodded slightly, beginning to fear for zir life.

Fear began to creep into zir mind, and Vodka began to wonder if zir ought not to have played around with these guys.

Dean tightened his grip on the furry suit. "Now. Is there anything at all that you might have let slip your mind, but really need to tell us?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Uh, well, uh..." Vodka stammered, not enjoying the breach of personal space. "Look, I just found her like that, okay? I didn't do anything to her, I just snapped a few pictures and I took off after calling the cops, okay? That's it!"

Vodka sighed.

"I didn't touch anything, I just took the pictures." Zir repeated, maintaining what had already been said.

Sam raised his brows, not sure if he believed this. This kid had to know something.

"And, how did you find out about her? Or the guy at the Packard plant?" Sam asked the kid, who looked close to wetting himself.

"I wander." Vodka stated. "And, if I find something interesting along the way, well hey, I take a pic and post it on the net. Is that a crime? No, I don’t think so!"

"Yes, actually, it is." Dean pointed out, pulling Vodka up onto zir toes.

"Easy on the fur, bucko!" Vodka yelped, as zir felt the fabric slide up uncomfortably and bunch betwixt zir buttocks.

"Anything else?" Dean prodded unhappily, his arm feeling like it was on fire.

Vodka felt the fabric tighten around zir neck, and zir coughed as the neckline began to crush zir windpipe, cutting off zir oxygen supply completely.

Sam widened his eyes, and rushed over to pull Dean's arm down, letting the kid breathe again.

"You're nuts." Vodka croaked, rubbing zir throat where the cloth had cut in, gasping for air.

"Yeah, whatever. Is there anything else you can tell us?" Dean asked, raising his voice.

"I'm gonna sue the pants off of you." Vodka threatened nastily, rubbing zir throat. "I'm sure that the cams I've got set up around my room will provide ample evidence. Oh, and don't bother looking for them, I've hidden them too well. Your careers are over, pal. You’re toast."

Sam couldn't help but chuckle at this.

"Yeah, that's really going to hold up in court." Sam told zir sarcastically, wondering how anyone could be quite this level of stupid. "Honestly... For a seventeen year old, you're not that bright, are you?"

Dean let go of the fur suit and gave Vodka a small push backward, sending zir sprawling on the bed.

"Oh, and one more thing; shut down the website." He ordered, pointing at the furry. "You want a website, have one with sunshine, rainbows and cute little kitten videos."

"Yeah, no." Vodka replied, voice still raw, not even considering their words. "Now, get out."

Dean contemplated just dragging the kid off the bed and giving him a few good kicks for the hell of it.

Vodka sat up, staring at them coldly.

"Go, before I really get you into trouble." Zir threatened them confidently, an idea creeping into zir twisted mind.

"Yep. You got me scared." Dean remarked, moving towards the door. He had to go. He was going to kill this kid.

Dean was already halfway down the stairs, and he wasn't even sure Sam was following.

Of course, Sam had come downstairs with him.

 

 

Before leaving, Sam ducked into the living room, where Sally sat on the sofa looking torn between opening the bottle of hard liquor and not bothering.

"We, uh, we'll be going now, but we'll be in touch." Sam told her softly, passing her his card. "If there's anything you feel you need to tell us, give me a call."

There wasn’t much he could do, but Sam did feel for this unfortunate woman.

Sally nodded, swallowing. "You know, I don't actually drink." She told him, feeling the need to explain the hooch. "I just bought this one today. It's just... Godfrey.... It's just..."

Sally wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. She shook her head despondently.

"Have you considered getting him some help?" Sam asked in a soothing tone, hoping that she had.

"Oh yeah, I've considered it. I've even gone so far as to arrange a counselling session. But how am I going to make him go?" She asked tiredly.

"Good point." Sam sympathised. "You know, maybe we can send over a social worker to help sort things out. If you want, of course."

"The last thing I need is social services breathing down my neck." Sally said, eyeing the bottle.

Sam licked his lips, unsure of what to do.

"I… Uh, I've really got to be going..." Sam began, feeling incredibly guilty. "But, that number I just gave you? Call if you need anything, okay?"

"Thank you." Sally said quietly.

 

 

As they drove into the motel lot, Dean suddenly turned to Sam. "I'm dropping you off." He stated firmly.

"What? Why?" Sam asked, a little jarred by this sudden declaration.

"I need some me time, and I can't have me time if you're there too." Dean told him, slowing down outside of the motel's driveway.

"You're not going back for that kid, are you?" Sam asked seriously, wondering if he would have to trail his brother to keep an eye on him.

Who knew what Dean would do at this point; the mark was hijacking Dean’s controls and that made him difficult to predict at times.

"I'm going to get smashed at a bar, and maybe pick up a hot chick. Is that alright with you?" Dean demanded, trying to control the flare up of anger.

"Wow, okay." Sam said, affronted by Dean’s tone.

He held up his hands before getting out of the car, heading to their suite.

 

 

After getting into the crummy motel room, Sam grabbed a family pack of gummy snacks and lay down on the bed, watching a Rocky and Bullwinkle marathon.

He had already checked out everything that he could, and now he was just going to chill out and relax.

Maybe, he’d even order takeout.

 

 

The bar was dark and had a few people, even though it was barely noon.

As the bartender passed, Dean held up his glass to be refilled.

He sighed and tried to ignore his reflection by looking around at the other patrons, focusing on a guy who was passed out on the bar.

When the bartender went down to check on the drunk, Dean glanced around, before putting his arm in his lap, carefully pulling the sleeve up so he could check on the mark.

He almost wished he hadn't. It was red and swollen, looking almost infected.

He placed his palm over it, and it felt like it was going to burn his hand.

"Jeez." He breathed, pulling his sleeve back down, shaking his head.

As he tossed back another Barbie shot, there was a flash of light in the mirror behind the bar, alerting him to the fact that someone had just walked in.

A woman with long, dark, wavy, black hair walked past him and settled herself at the far end of the bar, where she watched the boxing match that was going on on TV.

Dean ordered another shot and looked at the newcomer.

She wore a slightly frayed men's jean jacket over a black spaghetti top, jeans and had on tan cowboy boots that had the metal toes.

After a while, the woman began cheering loudly as a new boxing match wore on.

The barkeep shushed her, as her voice echoed throughout the establishment.

She grinned as she raised her eyebrows at the other people there, before her eyes settled on Dean. She raised her glass of beer to him in some sort of a salute.

She started to rise, but hesitated before sitting back and turning towards the TV.

Dean finished his Barbie shot and sauntered over to the woman at the end of the bar.

"There isn't a word in the dictionary that describes how beautiful you are." He complimented her, leaning on the bar and grinning confidently.

The woman smiled back at him and touched his hand. "A line like that deserves a drink." She said in a sweet, satiny voice. "Don't you think?"

Dean ignored that nearly silent voice in the back of his mind, the one that used to be so much louder, and agreed with the stranger.

Another beer for the woman came, and a shot of whiskey for Dean.

She held out her hand to him. "My name's Raven." She told him, sipping her beer.

 

 

After the fifth cartoon episode, Sam's mind began going numb.

But, he was so comfortable, he didn't care too much. It was actually kind of pleasant.

He lay there beneath the soft cotton comforter, waiting for his pizza to arrive.

He had at least twenty more minutes to wait, and his eyes were tired, so he closed them to rest for a bit.

He unintentionally fell asleep not too long after that.

 

Sam awoke to the scent of delicious pizza, looking around and noticing the box set down on the bedside table.

He also noticed a familiar face staring down at him intently.

"Hello, Sam." The angel intoned in his deep voice, looking customarily untidy.

"Uh, yeah... Hi." Sam replied, sitting up, and noticing something else lurking in the room, which turned out to be a medium sized dog with a brown spot over one eye. "What's up, and why the dog?"

Castiel picked up the pizza box, passing it to Sam. "Eat." He said, sensing the man's hunger, but disregarding his question entirely.

Sam opened the box, taking a slice of the triple cheese and pepperoni with green olives, picking a piece of meat off the slice and tossing it to the dog who merely watched it sail to the floor.

"Something is not right." Castiel intoned seriously. "I’ve been sensing a great disturbance, and I have a distinct feeling that Dean is at the heart of it."

Sam raised a brow, his brain still foggy from sleep.

"Like what?" He inquired. He felt put off by the dog, which had a creepy presence to it .

He wondered why Castiel wouldn't have approached Dean to begin with. Then again, perhaps he had.

"It is very difficult to tell." Castiel answered him, looking at the pizza and missing eating.

He remembered how thrilling the flavour of a PB&J had been, the savoury taste of roasted meats, the way that pungent molecules of apple juice had played over his taste buds…

Sam closed the pizza box, feeling a bit bad as he noticed the look on Castiel’s face, waiting for him to continue.

He didn't.

"And?" Sam prompted, gesturing with a hand.

"And, I believe that Dean is in great danger; or rather, will be soon." Castiel went on. "Something very powerful has been following you both for a while now."

Sam's eyes widened.

"And, you're only now saying something about it?" He asked a little more loudly, setting his pizza aside and wiping his fingers on his jeans. “More of a heads up would’ve been nice.”

"Yes." Castiel replied simply. “If I had been able to provide ample warning, I would have.”

Sam tossed back the covers, sliding his legs over the side of the bed.

"All right, well, how dangerous is this thing?" Sam asked, getting to his feet. "And, what the hell is it?"

"It’s extremely dangerous. The power that it radiates reaches much farther than I have seen in a very long time." Castiel explained. "Though, I have no idea as to what it is. I have only felt something like this once before, and that was only very briefly."

Sam didn't know what to think.

If Castiel said this thing was bad, then he knew that they were in for some big trouble.

He reached for his phone, speed dialling Dean, but there was no answer.

Sam let it ring a while longer. Still, no reply from Dean.

He sent a quick text, telling him to call ASAP.

Castiel watched silently, as Sam remembered that phone number.

The one he'd been warned only to call in a genuine emergency. The one he had wondered about so many times in the past.

Sam found the number, looking down at it contemplatively.

Maybe he ought to...

Sam's thumb hovered over the 'call' button a few seconds, before he actually touched the screen.

There were a few rings, before someone answered.

 

 

Karl's French Fried Crabs, or KFFC for short, was a fine dining establishment for the middle class, was situated in the middle of downtown Chicago. It was also the favourite restaurant of the Herrmanns.

Christopher sat across from his wife, Cindy, who looked pleased to finally have a night out with just her and her husband.

She was just about to say something, when Christopher's cell rang, playing 'Boogie Nights'.

He looked at the screen, his face registering confusion at the unfamiliar number.

"Hi?" He answered the call warily, Cindy giving him exasperated looks, holding her hands up in a way that asked, 'what are you doing?'

"Hi, am I speaking to Christopher Herrmann?" Sam asked a touch awkwardly, clearing his throat gently as he waited for a response.

"Eyeah, this is Herrmann." Christopher replied, still trying to puzzle out who this was. He didn't sound the slightest bit familiar.

"Sorry to bother you." Sam began, as the dog approached and sat directly in front of him, staring frostily into his eyes; into his very soul, even. He shifted uncomfortably.

"My name's Sam, Sam Winchester. I got your number from a good friend of mine, Bobby Singer? He told me to call this number only if either me or my brother were in some bad trouble." Sam explained, beginning to feel very disconcerted with this creepy animal staring at him like this.

Not that Castiel did anything about it.

"So why didn't you call Bobby?" Christopher asked, a little annoyed.

Sam felt a twinge. "Because, he passed away nearly three years ago." Sam answered a little dully, that certain empty spot inside of him becoming even more noticeable.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, followed by a cough.

"Sorry, I didn't realise you didn't know..." Sam told him genuinely, knowing what a shock it must have been to learn the news.

"Alright, so what kind of trouble are you in, and how can I help?" Christopher asked, ignoring Cindy, who was sulking by this point.

Sam blinked, unsure of what to say.

It wasn't as though he even knew what he was up against.

"The details are kind of hazy at this point; all I can tell you is that whatever it is, it's big. Like, massive. And, incredibly dangerous." Sam explained vaguely, feeling stupid.

"384 91 1369." Christopher recited, waiting with a solemn expression.

"Bobby's SSN, it was tattooed on the arch of his left foot." Sam stated easily, understanding this guy's need for confirmation.

"Where?" Christopher asked, making motions at Cindy, trying to get her to cough up a pen and paper.

She leaned back, giving him a sour expression.

He gestured harder, and she stuck her chin in the air, before relenting.

Sam relayed the address of the motel, picking up his half-eaten piece of pizza, taking a bite.

Christopher repeated it, and said that he would be on the next plane, before disconnecting.

Putting the phone away, he turned to Cindy, who sighed.

"Sorry, Honey." Christopher told her. "I gotta go. This is a life or death situation."

Cindy frowned. "What's wrong?" She asked. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I just found out that Bobby died, and there's a situation I need to deal with." He said, standing up, leaving some money with her so that she could eat the rest of the meal in peace.

"Go ahead and enjoy the soufflé tonight." He said. "I'll call you when I land."

 

 

It was nearing 8:30 pm, when there came a rap upon the motel door.

Sam answered it, looking down at the older man.

"Can I help you?" He asked, not wanting to make any assumptions as to who it was.

"Looking for Sam Winchester." Christopher said, pretty sure he had the right giant.

Sam nodded, gesturing for him to come in.

"I didn't expect you so soon, thanks for coming." Sam told him, offering him a piece of pizza from the box.

"I'm a man of my word." Christopher said with a shrug. "I said I'd get the next flight." He accepted the slice and sat on the corner of the bed, as Castiel practically glided noiselessly into the room from the bathroom area.

He had been enjoying washing his hands for the past ten minutes, the water droplets bouncing off of his skin, as the lather foamed delightfully.

He came to stand in the corner of the room, merely watching, as the dog followed close behind.

"Is this your brother?" Christopher said, swallowing a bite of pizza, before noticing the dog.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but was promptly cut off.

"What's Pouch doing here?" Christopher demanded, going over to the dog, who gave no reaction as he approached, crouching down beside Pouch.

She ignored him completely, even though he offered her the crust from his pizza.

The dog simply stared past him, not even acknowledging his existence.

Castiel looked down at the stranger.

"Was this your animal?" He asked, looking deeply into the firefighter’s blue eyes.

"Kinda. She belongs to house 51!" Christopher said in a raised voice, standing up. "What are you doing with her?" He asked, glaring at Castiel.

"I'm afraid I am unable to answer that. I'm sorry." Castiel told him, looking just past his shoulder.

"What the hell do you mean that you can't answer that?" Christopher nearly shouted. "You've got our dog, Pouch, and you can't tell me why? Can't, or won't tell me?"

Castiel's expression softened, tinged with sympathy.

"Again, I am sorry." He repeated, as Sam tried to get Christopher's attention.

The last thing he needed was for the situation to escalate and the only help that he had to end up walking out.

Sam frowned, giving a small sigh, as he waited for acknowledgement.

"What do you mean you're sorry?" Christopher snapped, taking a step closer as he put his hands on his narrow hips.

"This is not your dog; she may look the same, but there is nothing left inside of her that is still alive. She exists in body only.” Castiel told him in a kinder tone, trying not to upset him further while still explaining the situation as best he could. "That is why she doesn't remember you, won't greet you as she once did. Pouch is gone, Christopher."

"What the f...do you mean?" Christopher demanded, making sure that he didn't swear. He came even closer, putting them almost nose to nose. He poked Castiel in the chest a few times.

"Sure looks like Pouch to me. You telling me I don't know my own dog?" He turned to Sam. "Who is this clown?"

Sam licked his bottom lip, his stress levels rising higher.

"Castiel." Sam introduced the angel cautiously, not sure how the firefighter would react to the truth. "He's a good friend of mine, and if he says that isn't your dog, he's telling the truth. I know it sounds like a load of crap, but trust me, Cas wouldn’t lie like that."

Christopher then took a few steps over to the dog. Crouching down, and taking the dog tags in his hand, he read them.

Squinting up at Sam, he said, "Just what I thought. This is Pouch. She belongs to 51."

Castiel looked from Sam to Christopher tentatively, before disappearing on the spot simultaneously with the canine.

"So, back to why I asked for your help..." Sam began cautiously, noting the outright upset on the other man's face.

"What exactly just happened here?" Christopher asked, gesturing to the empty spots where the angel and dog were just a heartbeat ago. "Explain to me why I abandoned my wife at KFFC and got on the first flight here, supposedly to save someone's ass."

"Uh, yeah, that was a bit of a rough start to things... Cas is, well, he’s an angel. It's a long story, but whatever he's doing with the dog, I know that he's got a good reason for it." Sam explained gently, stuffing his hands in his jeans front pockets.

He then went on to talk about what had been going on with Dean and the mark, giving some background on how his brother ended up with it.

This took some time, and by the time he'd finished explaining his story, it was dark outside.

Christopher was stunned.

Sam gave a stressed sort of half-laugh. "Yeah, I know." He said, taking out his phone and trying to call Dean again, with no luck this time either.

"Well, it looks like Dean's not coming back tonight." Sam mumbled. "Look, why don't you stay here for the night?"

"Uh, yeah." Christopher said, sitting on the unrumpled bed. "Thanks. In that case, I'm going to see how hot the water is here."

Sam nodded in acknowledgement, laying down on his own bed, and staring up at the ceiling in thought.

 

 

As the sun crept out from beyond the horizon, Christopher sat up on the edge of the bed, gave a humungous stretch, standing up and turning toward the other bed. "Shake a leg, Stretch." He said, tweaking Sam's toe that stuck out over the edge of the bed.

Sam grumbled, shifting beneath the warm covers.

He sat up, eyes half-closed due to the bright light.

"What's up?" Sam inquired, on alert.

"Well, it ain't you, is it, Sunshine?" Christopher said, searching the motel room for a coffee-maker.

Sam got out of bed, still dressed in the previous day's clothing, feeling hungry.

"What are you looking for?" Sam asked, wondering if he ought to give another restaurant a try.

"Coffee maker." Christopher answered. "I'm dying for a coffee."

"There isn't one." Sam replied, stretching his long arms, nearly knocking over the lamp. "You want to go out for some?"

"Yeah, that would be great. Is the kitchen open?" He asked, stomach growling emptily.

"No idea." Sam told him, picking up the motel phone and dialling for the front desk to ask.

While he was on hold, he heard a very familiar sound; the Impala's engine.

He heard the car being parked just outside, the driver's door shutting, and the footsteps Sam knew so well approach.

"Finally." Sam grumbled, hanging up the receiver, his face turning a bit dark.

Sam stalked over to the door, opening it crankily.

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam asked his brother before Dean could even open his mouth. "I called you at least half a dozen times last night."

"I had a busy night." Dean said, pausing as he noticed Christopher. "And, apparently so did you." He smiled, and raised a fist in salute. "Good for you."

Sam shook his head in disgust, his jaw set.

It wasn’t unlike Dean to spend a night or even two away, but to do so without at least giving him even one short call back was unheard of.

"Yeah, no." He returned, his tone sharp. "This guy is here to help us with the mark. He was good enough to come here, while you were busy slutting it up at the bar."

Sam brushed his hair back with his fingertips, fully annoyed with Dean by this point.

"The least you could've done was send a text back." Sam added, more upset by that fact than anything.

With Dean, it was just as likely that he could have been in serious trouble, rather than the alternative.

Sam then introduced the pair of them, his voice less cross than before.

Dean stuck out his hand to Christopher, who clasped his hand, pumping it once, and said, "Hello."

 

 

Shortly after meeting one another, the trio went out for breakfast at a nearby restaurant, 'The Egg & Sausage'.

A waitress came to the table, handing menus to the three of them. Christopher took a quick look at the menu, and gave his order, of three over-easy eggs, four slices of toast, and a slice of blueberry pie. "And a cup of coffee." He added quickly. "Please."

Sam ordered chicken and waffles, while Dean simply asked for pie.

"Sorry, he's having the last piece." She said, pointing her pen at Christopher.

Dean glared at him. "Fine. I'll have... just give me whatever health food crap you got." He took a deep breath and threw himself back in the seat.

"How's the arm?" Sam asked, looking a hint worried as he took a swallow of ice water.

Dean leaned forward, and pulled back his sleeve.

"You saw how bad it was yesterday, with me ripping at it?" He said, before all but shoving his arm into Sam's face proudly. The mark looked like a faint scar, without the tiniest hint of red.

Sam looked at it, crunching an ice cube, noting the dramatic difference.

"I don't know, something happened, and maybe you were right, I'm getting the hang of this." Dean said, pulling his sleeve back down.

After the food arrived, Sam cleared his throat.

"So, Cas showed up last night." Sam began, looking over to his brother. "It seems as though we've got ourselves a tail."

Sam cleared his throat. "There's a bit more to the story then what I told you yesterday." He admitted to Christopher, before giving them both a bit of detail about what he'd been told about the menacing presence following them.

Dean frowned, something occurring to him. He turned to Christopher. "And how do you fit in all this?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"Actually, I wouldn't mind knowing that myself." Sam said, wondering. "How did you know Bobby; why would he have told us to call you if we needed help?"

"First up, Bobby and I are... were cousins." Christopher said, studying the floor for a moment before continuing. "Second, I was a hunter." He let his words hang in the air.

"Was?" Sam asked incredulously, never having heard of more than one or two hunters that had successfully managed such a feat. "You gave it up? And, I had no idea Bobby had a cousin. He never talked about family that much."

Sam looked at Christopher thoughtfully. “I think I can see a bit of a resemblance.” He said, seeing just a hint of Bobby in his face.

Before Christopher could say anything Dean jumped in. "You don't just quit being a hunter." He said, shaking his head. "It's not a job, it's who you are. And all that crap? You can't just walk away from it."

Sam gave Christopher an apologetic look.

"Let's just say it takes a whole hell of a lot of strength to 'just walk away', as you put it." Christopher said, standing up, planting his feet shoulder width apart, squinting at Dean. "And 'all that crap' as you so eloquently put it? I'm here aren't I? That just speaks for itself, doesn't it?"

Dean sighed and looked at the older guy sardonically. "My point exactly."

Dean gestured to encompass them all. "You're here, and if you could just walk away, you wouldn't be." He pointed at Sam. "He called you, but you had a choice, and you still came here, rather than staying wherever and being... I don't know, a mechanic, you came here."

Sam understood what Dean was saying, and he felt a little bad.

Neither of them had really wanted to end up here, but they had. They didn’t regret it for the most part, but every once and again…

"Come on, Dean, ease up a bit." Sam told him quietly, so that only his brother would hear. "He's here to help, and we need him. Don't screw this up."

"I'm here because I am a hunter deep inside, where it counts the most." Christopher shot back, his voice very quiet. "Now, you going to quit screwing me around and get down to brass tacks, or do I hop on the next flight out of here?"

Sam raised his brows at his brother, tongue in his right cheek.

"Well?" He asked his brother, who pointed at Christopher's breakfast. "You going to finish your pie?" He asked, showing that he was willing to go past this.

Christopher blew out a bit of air, scoffing. "Yeah. The only thing better than hunting and sex is pie." He said, sitting back down, taking a bite of the pie.

 

 

Within the hour, they had arrived at the Packard Plant, of which there were only the bare remnants remaining of the now derelict factory.

"This sucks." Dean stated, his voice echoing slightly off of the graffitied expanse.

There was a burned-out barrel not too far from where the body was found, and the sound of rats could be heard from it.

Sam came up to the second floor to join the other men, his footsteps echoing pleasantly, a small item in his hand.

"Take a look at this." Sam invited them, showing them something small in the palm of his hand.

A small glint of curved silver flashed.

"Found it downstairs near a makeshift bed." Sam continued.

Dean walked over, starting to pick at his arm again. "What is it?" He asked, squinting at it.

Christopher plucked the object from Sam's hand, stating, "That's a nail. Like a fingernail."

Dean took it from him. "Weird. It doesn't look that sharp, does it?" He said, pressing it into his fingertip, slicing it open. "OK, it is." He winced, flicking the blood onto the floor.

Sam rolled his eyes. This sort of thing was typical for Dean.

"Why do you do that?" He asked, shaking his head and not understanding. "Every time you say something like that and test things out, you end up hurt. Idiot."

He dug around in his pocket, passing Dean an old and slightly disintegrating tissue. "Here." He said.

Dean took it, looking slightly shamefaced as he wrapped the tissue around his finger, the blood rapidly seeping through.

"Y'know, sometimes I just want to see whether things are as they appear to be. Bitch." He added unhappily.

Sam gave his brother a mild grin. "Jerk." He responded, as he always had and always would.

Christopher told Dean to let him look at the finger, and promptly told Dean that he needed some stitches.

"I'll take that under advisement." Dean said dryly, squeezing his finger tighter. He took a step and stumbled, as an arc of lightning laced its way through his forearm.

The pain blinded him, and he almost went down on one knee.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and saw two concerned faces.

Sam had rushed over immediately, helping to stabilise Dean, who roughly shoved him away, sending Sam collapsing into some nearby rubble.

"No!" Dean growled, staggering away, feeling the need to kill. "No. I gotta... I...” He didn't even try to finish talking; instead he just got out of there as fast as possible.

Sam plucked a sharp piece of jagged cement out of his side, and managed to get to his feet, trying to catch up with his brother.

 

When he finally caught sight of Dean again, he was utterly horrified at the sight that he beheld.

A metal pipe rang loudly off of the Impala with each fierce blow.

The passenger's side was already severely dented, and the rear window was gone, and now covered the backseat.

Christopher and Sam stopped a safe distance away to watch the scene unfold.

Sam swallowed hard, not having realised just how much Dean had been suffering.

There wasn't anything that he could do, and that bothered him terribly.

As he stood in silence, Christopher quietly asked, "Is this something new for him?"

Sam nodded dazedly. "Yeah. It is." He said, his voice thick with emotion as he watched.

Christopher patted Sam's upper arm in a consolatory manner. "There's nothing to do but to wait it out and to watch him." Christopher told him, gesturing towards a few discarded crates. He sat down, waiting for Sam to join him.

Sam heaved a sigh, already knowing this, and sat down as well, his long legs stretching out along the ground.

"Tell me, Stretch, how long has the kid had the mark?" Christopher asked, picking a bit of lint off of his jeans.

"A year, maybe." Sam answered, touching the tender area on his side, noting that his shirt was a bit sticky with blood. "How bad is it?" Sam asked, pulling up his shirt and showing Christopher.

"It's bit deep, and should be, uh, cleaned, and covered." Christopher answered, unbuttoning his breast pocket and taking a tiny first aid kit out.

He opened it, taking out a vial of iodine and a gauze pad. Quickly, doctoring Sam's side, Christopher put the pad on the injury site, careful to tape it so that it stayed. He didn't have much tape, so he prayed that it would stay on at least until Dean's freak out was over.

Sam gently hissed in pain, and thanked him, before letting his shirt fall back down.

As another window shattered loudly, Sam winced.

If Dean was beating the crap out of Baby, Sam couldn't know just how dangerous his brother could be.

Sam told the story of how Dean came to possess the mark in the first place, thinking that this was about the perfect time to do so.

"Honestly, he's like an entirely different person now..." Sam ended his thoughts, feeling somewhat empty inside.

With a humongous thud as the pipe came down on the severely scarred hood of the half mangled car, Dean dropped the pipe, letting it roll off the Impala, as he braced his gouged palms against the car, breathing very hard.

"Son of a bitch." He murmured to himself, taking in the damage he had done.

Dean straightened slightly, noting the two figures a distance away from him and the wreck. He sighed, shaking his head, before waving once at the two hunters.

Sam stood up, and made his way over.

"You, uh, you okay now?" He asked, trying not to make too much of it.

He knew that Dean would be feeling pretty rotten about it. There was no point in making things even worse.

"Well, now that you've got that out of your system... You do have that out of your system, right?" Christopher asked Dean, having followed Sam over. "I need to know what set that off."

Sam frowned, listening, as a breeze began playing with the dust surrounding the location.

"The way I understand it,” Christopher continued, standing guardedly. "This is way beyond normal for you."

Dean looked at both of them, before turning his gaze to the ground.

"I'm fine." He said, answering Sam first. "I don't know what set me off." He said, picking at the raw spots on his hands. "I was fine... better than fine, and then there was this, I don't know, this pain..." He gestured to Baby, the remorse plain.

Sam looked over the damage to the car.

"Yeah, Dean, you're not fine." Sam disagreed gently. "And, I don't think for a moment that you have been since you got the mark."

"You said that you were better, and then there was pain." Christopher said, studying Dean warily. "Can you elaborate on that?"

Dean grumbled, feeling tired and sick. He didn't want to have to put up with this guy's ninth degree.

"It was the mark, and it felt like someone was carving into my bones." Dean explained, kind of hating the fact that he actually knew what that felt like.

Sam patted Dean's shoulder, wanting to do more, but not knowing what he really could do for his brother. What he’d even be allowed to try.

"Let's get back to the motel." He said, going and trying to open the Impala's passenger door.

He knew better than to get in the driver's seat, even if Dean wasn't up to snuff.

There was a fair amount of body damage and the windows were shot, but Sam felt confident that the Impala would start.

It might not be street legal, but it wasn't as though Dean would be willing to leave the car, or trust a tow truck.

Dean sighed, thinking that there was still daylight, and even with everything else, they should be trying to get to the bottom of this case.

He looked at Christopher, who shrugged before brushing some glass off the backseat, and jumping in.

Sam, on the other hand, had been unable to open the door at all, and so after brushing the glass off the seat through the window area, he climbed through the hole very cumbersomely.

He managed to get stuck for a few moments, but was kindly freed by Dean.

He buckled up, blushing a bit, and waited for Dean to get in.

Dean walked slowly around to his side and got in.

"Alright." He said, thinking. He had to try starting Baby three times before the engine caught.

"What is an ambush predator that rips out throats, and then cuts out the vic's bones?" He asked, picking the way out from behind the Packard plant.

He looked at Sam, who said nothing. "A type of witch?" Dean asked, glancing at Christopher. "Y'know, take the bones for spells, or something?"

Sam looked thoughtful.

"I don't think it's a witch." Christopher stated. "Yes, witches use bones for spells, but this would be too complicated, too time consuming, and they only need certain bones."

Dean blew out a breath. "Then what is it?" He prompted them. "I don't think I've ever heard of anything like this." He thought for a moment. "I don't think I ever even seen something like this in Dad's journal, and there was a lot of wacked out crap in there."

Sam nodded, still thinking about what it might be. Despite how long they’d been in the game, there was always going to be some monster they didn’t know about, or some protective measure they had yet to learn about; constantly learning has always been integral part of hunting.

"Something just came back to me." Christopher said. "I need to do a little bit of research to verify."

 

 

On the way back, Sam picked up some wonton soup from a restaurant.

They were all hungry, and the heady scent of the soup was incredibly tantalising.

After they had all gotten into the motel room, Sam made his way over to the laptop on the cheap table and turned it on.

Sam encouraged Dean to sit down, as he set the containers of soup beside the computer.

He took a small handful of fortune cookies out of the bottom of the brown paper bag.

He chucked one to Dean, who, unlike Sam, actually liked the things.

Sam stopped for a moment, noting the page that popped up on his screen.

There was not one, but six new attacks that were headlined on Morbyd Tymes.

At the very top, as a banner, there was something else that was new; a webm of a very fluffy cat chomping at a banana, as well as a link to more 'Sunshine and Rainbows and Cute Cat Videos'.

Sam ignored the top bit, and read about the deaths.

These ones were much the same as the last, and all of them had been found together on the university campus outside the medical building.

The photos were clear close-up shots, with multiple angles.

Sam began closing the laptop, trying to avoid Dean seeing it.

The last thing they needed was for Dean to go Hulk again.

"What?" Dean said, mouth full of cookies. He waggled his finger at his own forehead. "You've got the Wi-Fi thing going on again."

"Just hungry." Sam lied, taking the lid of off his soup, and 'mmm'-ing a little too much.

"You are so full of it." Dean remarked, trying to scoop up a wonton, which fell back into the soup, splattering them both with hot liquid.

"Don't mind if I make a call, do ya?" Christopher asked, phone already in his hand.

"Go ahead." Sam encouraged, using his chopsticks to grab a piece of broccoli.

Dean eyed the chopsticks. "Seriously?" He asked, tapping his spoon against his own carton.

"What?" Sam asked, frowning.

Dean always was annoyed when Sam used chopsticks. Sam always felt that Dean had always been jealous that he couldn’t use them himself.

 

Christopher dialled his home number, and Rosalie answered. "It's Daddy! It's Daddy! It's Daddy!" She shouted, nearly deafening him.

"Can Daddy talk to Mommy, please?" Christopher asked, and Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Mo-ommy! Daddy wants to talk to you!" Rosalie cried out. "MOOOMMY! MOMMY! Daddy wants to talk to you!!!"

"OK, I'm on the extension, you can hang up now." Cindy said, but Rosalie didn't hang up. Instead she just asked, "Daddy, you going to bring me something? You gonna get me something?"

"Yes, Ducky, Daddy's going to bring you something, but only if you're a good girl and let Mommy talk." He promised, a smile in his voice.

"Rosalie, hang up the phone." Cindy repeated, and there was a loud clatter at the child's end of the line.

"What's up?" Cindy asked Christopher, sounding a little worried.

"Have you been reading the papers?" He asked her, and she told him that she had. "What was I supposed to see?" She asked.

"You know the horrific deaths that they reported? For the greater Detroit area? Well, that's what I'm working on." He told her.

"Oh, I don't like that." Cindy murmured worriedly. "Do you still have the hand that I gave you?"

"Yeah, its right here, Baby, in my pocket with my change." He assured her. "I need a little help from you on this."

"Should I call my Mom so that she can sit with the kids?" She questioned.

"Not just yet, but you might want to keep her on standby." He said. "What I need from you right now is for you to go into our safe, you know, the one in the closet? I need you to get my portfolio and flip to nineteen eighty-one. Look under scales and nails."

"Mm-hm, give me a sec." Cindy told him, before setting the phone down and getting the appropriate things, moving aside her ceremonial bone necklace and her chicken feet.

"Alright, here it is." She said, nestling the receiver between her ear and shoulder. "You think something's claws cut up those people like that?"

"That's exactly what I'm thinking." Christopher replied.

"Hm. Well that narrows it down. There are werewolves, orcs, goblins and dryads, but dryads have wood for nails, so I don't know if that fits."

Cindy told him, looking at the pictures. "I don't think you could cut up someone with wood."

"No, these nails are teardrop shape and looked to be made from silver." He told her, and he could hear the sound of pages turning.

"Well, that makes it so that werewolves and dryads are out. Orcs have a silver-black nail; I don't know how the nails are shaped, though." She announced, flipping back towards the goblin page. "Oh, that's not good."

"Definitely not an orc. They're too loutish and clumsy for this." Christopher let her know.

"Well, Honey, you know I think I would really prefer that it was an orc, because that would leave you with goblins, and normally they're fairly easy to deal with, but they're prone to getting a disease that makes them more like, well, I guess zombies." She said, shaking her head. "I don't mean like real zombies, but more like the vicious ones on the now-a-days movies." She gave a small giggle. "I guess they would be gomblies."

"Well, gomblies it is, then." He agreed, and Dean crossed his arms. "What the hell is a gomblie?" He muttered, frowning at Sam. "That sounds made up.

Sam shrugged unknowingly, as Christopher thanked Cindy, telling her that he loved her, and that he would call her when he was able. "Tell the children that their Daddy loves them." He said, ending the call.

"So, what's a gomblie?" Sam asked curiously, cocking a brow and slurping some broth straight from the container.

"It's a goblin gone zombie." Christopher stated. "Or as Cindy calls them, gomblies."

"That's cute." Sam stated in half-amusement. "How do we get rid of them?"

Dean dropped his spoon in the empty container. "Why do I get the feeling that they are the going to be the fugliest douches out there, if their name is 'cute'." He asked in distaste. He got up and stretched, yawning. "I'm freakin' exhausted, man." He said, going over to his bed, phone in hand. He scrolled through the messages, but there was nothing new from Raven, which disappointed him more than he cared to admit.

A sudden restlessness gripped him, so he got to his feet and went over to the table, flipping open the laptop.

"What the hell?!" Dean demanded, staring at the screen, looking at Morbyd Tymes with all of its new changes. "That's it, I'm going back there, maybe trunk that little son of a bitch."

Sam hadn't expected Dean to suddenly use the laptop, and fumbled for the right thing to say.

"I really don't think that's a great idea; let Chris and I handle this, all right?" Sam asked, trying to close the laptop again. “We’ve got this.”

Dean kept it open though. "Yeah? Handle it how? This little monster needs a foot up the ass, and you and I both know you're not going to do that." He turned to Christopher. "I doubt you would either."

"Sam, I would really rather you called me Christopher, please." The older man said politely.

Dean grabbed his leather coat and started for the door, his mind already made up.

"Oh. Yeah, sure." Sam told him a bit dismissively, as he went after his brother. "Hey, hold up!"

He managed to catch up to Dean, who spun on his heel, still walking towards the dinged up car, only moving backward.

"Come on, we've got this." Sam encouraged him hopefully, gesturing to Christopher, who was now by his side. "You're tired, you're pissed off, and this isn't the best time to be doing anything. You know that."

"Damn right I'm pissed off!" Dean nearly shouted as he raised his hands. "That little sicko has got to get some sense knocked into him, not someone to talk to him and tell him that he's being a bad little boy for posting pictures of mutilated people on the World Wide Web! So, stow your touchy-feely crap, and let me do this."

Sam swooped in and snatched the car keys away from Dean.

"No." Sam told him seriously. "Not this time, Dean. Enough is enough. You could end up killing that kid, and I'm not going to stand by and let it happen."

"Why don't you just hole up here and get some sleep, because we're going to need you when we get back." Christopher added.

Dean couldn't honestly see a downside of killing Vodka, and he wasn't sure if that was thanks to the mark, or because Vodka was just that horrible a person.

"Yeah? And what are you two going to do?" He demanded, lunging to get the keys back and failing.

Sam jerked the keys higher, easily moving them out of reach.

"Don't worry about it." Sam told him with a tone of authority. "Now, how about you head inside and rest up a bit?"

"We can deal with the little punk." Christopher made a determined face. "We've really got to get going. We're running out of time, and we don't have much of it."

Dean hesitantly relented. "Fine, I'll... I guess I'll do absolutely nothing, because there is nothing in there for me to do." He said, gesturing back at the motel suite.

He brushed past them and headed back to the room.

 

 

Deciding to leave the busted up Impala behind, Sam found a vehicle that had been easy enough to get into and hotwire.

He proceeded to drive to Vodka's residence, parking on the other side of the street.

Sam and Christopher made their way up to the house, and the doorbell was rung.

Sally answered the door, wearing a fuchsia robe and holding the bottle of liquor from before, only now it was open and partially consumed.

The heavy smell of ouzo drifted on the air.

Sam blinked, ignoring it.

"Could we talk to your son, please?" Sam asked politely, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"You could if he was here." She replied, looking hopeless. "He left here very much in a rage after you left here last time. He did call that night, to say he was staying with a friend. I've called everyone I can think of, but no one has seen him."

"Have you filed a missing persons' report?" Christopher asked with concern in his voice.

Sally looked at him like he was from another planet. "What kind of mother would I be if I didn't? Of course I did." She told him offendedly.

"Of course you did." Sam said, as though it were obvious. "Could we maybe take a quick look in his room, check for any signs of where he might have gone?"

"You don't think I did that already?" Sally asked with a puzzled look on her face, her tone tinged with anger.

"As a mother, naturally you would have." Sam told her, trying to soothe her. "But, we are FBI. We have specialised techniques for such procedures."

"Uh, okay." Sally caved. "You remember where his room is?"

Sam nodded, and went past her upstairs to the messy bedroom.

 

Christopher stayed back downstairs with Sally.

"How about we switch to some coffee?" He suggested neutrally, moving her into the kitchen. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Can't remember." She said, slightly slurring her words.

Spotting an old pot of coffee and a cup on the counter, Christopher filled the cup and nuked it in the microwave for about a minute.

In the meantime, he rummaged in the cupboards for some bread.

Finding crackers, he gave her the tube and the warmed over coffee, telling her to eat.

 

Upstairs, Sam went through Vodka's bedroom, scouring it for anything that might be useful.

He found a creased map in a locked drawer of the kid's desk, one that had a number of marked locations and scrawled words carelessly written in random spots.

He stuffed it into his pocket, and left.

 

Sam found Christopher and Sally in the kitchen, and he gave a bit of a nod to convey that he had something.

After exchanging a few words, and patting her on the arm, Christopher followed Sam out the front door.

 

 

As Sam reviewed the map, Christopher drove the dark blue Sedan.

"It looks like he might've headed to Sherwood Forest." Sam half-mumbled, squinting at the paper map. "Swing left in half a mile."

"OK, Stretch, what's supposed to be in Sherwood Forest? Y'know, besides Robin Hood and his merry men." Christopher quipped, stopping at a light.

Sam tried to decipher the terrible handwriting, but was unable.

"No idea." He answered honestly, squinting at the map. The script was positively atrocious, and even the neater words were difficult to read.

"Whereabouts in Sherwood Forest?" Christopher asked, turning.

Sam traced along the map with his index finger.

"Looks like... Maybe a quarter of the way in on the west side. Rosalyn Place." He said, as the vehicle went over a rather rough patch in the road, sending his head bumping against the roof.

 

 

Parking outside a house that was just in the first stages of construction. The basement was already laid, and there was rebar sticking out of the concrete about every three and a half feet.

Stacks of materials covered in tarps were scattered along the site, along with the machinery and a port-a-potty.

It left a lot of room for shadows, and tons of places to hide.

Checking around for anything unusual, Christopher found what appeared to be grey fur by a clump of crab-grass.

He crouched down to examine it, twisting it between his fingertips, finding that it did not feel like real fur.

He went over to Sam, who had been approaching the skeleton of the house, which had been wrapped tightly in plastic to keep out the elements. He stopped as Christopher neared him, lowering his flashlight.

"This is odd." Christopher said, showing the inch and a half of fur. He rubbed it between his fingers. "Pretty sure that this is fake." Sam took it, eyes widening. "What would something like this be doing on a construction site?" Christopher asked, but Sam started walking again, and when Christopher caught up again, Sam began to explain.

"It's the missing kid." He told him, and Christopher interjected with, "Since when do kids have fur, or teenagers carry around teddy bears?"

Sam shook his head. "Uh, no, this kid's a furry." He said with a hint of embarrassment, wondering how furries even became a thing to begin with.

Christopher looked a little baffled. "What the hell is a furry?" He asked, pausing on the lip of the basement, noticing a whirring sound.

He looked over his shoulder at a bulldozer, and saw something moving. He pulled out his flashlight and shone it under the machine, lighting up the spinning wheels of a Segway.

"What the-?" He muttered, before shaking his head.

Sam cautiously headed down to the basement, pulling out his gun, resting his gun hand on top of the hand holding flashlight, using the latter for stability.

Pausing only an instant, Sam took what appeared to be a matted ball of fluff with a smear of blood on it. He nudged it with his shoe, realising that it was the ear from Vodka's furry suit.

There was nothing else in the basement, only the set cement and some dust.

Sam got out of there, and began moving his flashlight around the immediate area, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

But, though he saw nothing, he did hear something.

A light sound of wind rushing through leaves, though the night air was still.

The sound grew, almost to a deafening volume, before it disappeared entirely, leaving Sam feeling disoriented.

Christopher lowered his hand from his ear cautiously. "Over there, I think." He said in a stage whisper as he leaned towards Sam, pointing in the vicinity of the Port-A-Potty.

Sam nodded, and began approaching the blue container, Christopher a step ahead.

They heard a gentle chittering, similar to a contented capybara.

Sam was ready to protect himself, as Christopher pulled a razor-sharp machete out of the back of his shirt, at the same time, he let Sam know to decapitate and chop the limbs off of the creatures.

Sam acknowledged him, wondering if they really had to go through all that; it seemed a bit over the top.

But, it wasn't as though he was familiar with whatever these 'gomblies' were, so he didn't say anything.

Sam positioned himself behind the Port-A-Potty, as Christopher inched closer to the front of the commode, his head tipped to the side, straining his ear to hear something other than chittering. There was a quiet whimpering coming from the inside of the john.

Christopher took the flat side of his machete and tapped on the door. Vodka let out a frightened moan.

"Help, the aliens are trying to kill me!" Zir shouted in a strangled tone, hoping that whoever was there would be able to save him.

Christopher shook his head. "They always think it's aliens." He muttered to himself in wonder.

A gomblie rushed the side of the Port-A-Potty, slicing the plastic open with its index claws, the plastic parted at if it was no more than crepe paper, creating a long enough slit so that it could stick its arm in.

Sam moved backwards, making sure to stay out of its reach, pulling his own machete and holding it at the ready.

"Unlock the door, kid." Christopher commanded, and Vodka reached for the locking mechanism with shaking hands, as zir left arm was skewered by five razor sharp gomblie claws.

Vodka let out a piercing shriek of pain, as zir arm was wrenched forcefully out of the hole, the claws embedded in bone.

Sam lined up a heavy blow to the offending gomblie's arm, and swung with precision.

The arm dangled, still attached to Vodka, who was freaking out badly by now.

As Christopher managed to pull the still shrieking kid from the toilet, the wounded gomblie let out a loud high-pitched keening sound.

Sam raised the machete once more, and, letting it fall on the back of the hideous creature's neck, the ugly sound was silenced.

Thick blood surged across Sam's front, not that he really noticed. He was used to it.

Sam looked around for more, not that he spotted any, and went to help with Vodka.

Christopher had it under control, and so Sam illuminated the monster's corpse, taking in the full sight; an oval mouth with downward slashes at the corners. No eyebrows. Cute little bear ears.

It stood no taller than two and a half feet when it had its head intact.

Before Sam's very eyes, the thing slowly transformed into a young child of perhaps six years old.

Sam let out a gasp of astonishment.

Had it been a child to begin with? What exactly had happened to turn it into... That?

"Look alive, stay alive, Sam." Christopher said solemnly. "We've got company." He nodded towards the crowd converging on them from behind the Port-A-Potty.

As Sam prepared for the onslaught, Vodka caught sight of the sheer amount of eerie children coming straight for them.

The wounded furry let out an incredibly long scream, before passing out due to sheer fright and collapsing on the ground.

Sam prepared to shoot, but he found it impossible to open fire on mere children, even if they were actually monsters.

"Well?" Sam prompted the veteran, his eyes a bit wide. "Now what?"

Christopher took a moment too long to respond, seeing instead of monsters, his kids and their buddies.

A gomblie, who had tripped, gripped Christopher's leg and started slicing it open.

Christopher snapped out of his reverie and yelled at Sam. "Slice their heads off! Take them clean off!" He was already swinging his machete through the nearest one's neck.

Sam cleared his throat, trying to manage to get through this.

But, these were just kids... Weren't they?

Sam noticed that some of them looked less human; they seemed to be having difficulty in managing to keep up a humanoid appearance.

Whatever these things were, they needed to be stopped.

Sam took a breath, and made his way forwards, slashing violently and accurately as he did so.

The gomblies were relentless, and the older ones didn't go down easily.

There were so many of them, it seemed that maybe this could be the end.

Sam glanced over to Christopher, who was holding his own against the gomblies.

Endless minutes passed by, and Christopher was starting to feel weak from loss of blood and the exertion.

Only a few gomblies were left, and they were the size of grown men.

Sam moved a bit closer to Christopher, noting how badly he was doing because of the injury.

Sam was getting tired, and he had more than a few cuts and puncture wounds from all the fighting.

The big guys were abundantly stronger then the children, and had murder in their hearts.

 

The adult gomblies howled and raged before charging the two standing humans.

Christopher stepped into the gomblie, swinging, but only managing a glancing blow on the ball of its shoulder. Sam worked with him, knowing that they had to work together or else they wouldn't stand a chance.

Being taller, and more apt to be able to land a mortal blow to the gomblie they were currently up against, he did his best to swing the machete cleanly.

He missed, only cutting through a few layers of the skin on its neck, enraging it further.

Sam tried again, this time missing completely as the creature moved away.

It reached out, snagging Sam's shoulder and preparing to slice into his throat.

Christopher's machete whistled through the air, slicing through the gomblie's lower ear, glancing off of its jaw. Pulled the machete back for a second blow, Christopher cut the monster's head off, the blade making a sucking sound as it pared through the thing's flesh.

Just as it crashed lifelessly to the cold ground, two more monsters rushed the men, barely giving them time to get out of the way as they began to attack.

Sam managed to swing his machete through one's leg, which caused it to crumple to the earth, letting out shrill grunts of agony.

Sam beheaded it, before helping Christopher to take down the other.

Christopher took one last mighty swing, and the gomblie he was fighting lost its head.

Sam stood up, breathing heavily, noticing the pain in his right hand.

He was missing his pinkie finger, which he found in the dirt a couple of feet away.

Sam picked it up, feeling a bit disgusted.

It didn't make sense, really. He'd dealt with a lot worse. But, this was his finger. It was different.

Christopher tore of his shirt and hastily bandaged his leg tightly.

"Fun's not over yet, Sam." He said wearily. "We've got to dismember 'em and then burn 'em."

Sam let out a sigh, deciding to call Dean for a bit of backup.

Of course, Dean wasn't answering his phone.

Sam shook his head, a pained smile on his face as he tucked his phone back into his pocket, wrapping his bleeding hand with a clean handkerchief.

 

 

There wasn't too much time to mend Christopher's leg, with the amount of blood that was being lost.

After Sam stitched the large gaping wound in Christopher's leg, they got into the vehicle and called for an ambulance on Sam's extra throwaway cell phone, waiting until they heard the sirens, Vodka’s unconscious form illuminated by the pyre of numerous corpses.

Sam drove back to the motel, quickly changed out of the bloody clothes he was wearing, and headed to the hospital to get his finger reattached, leaving Christopher to rest.

 

 

A few hours later, after waiting in the emergency area for quite some time, Sam's finger was reattached within minutes of the doctor's arrival in the room.

After the bandages being applied, Sam headed back to the motel, hungry, exhausted and in bad need of a shower.

He arrived back to find Christopher lying on his side propped up in Dean's bed, pillow between his legs to lend some support.

Within moments of his arrival, Castiel appeared in the direct middle of the room, looking even more serious than usual.

"The situation is even more problematic than I had first thought." He began, looking very tired and worn. "And, Dean is indeed at the core of it."

Sam listened closely, as Christopher's stomach let out a loud grumble.

Sam held up a finger. "Give me a couple of minutes." He said, going over to the phone and ordering a couple of fully loaded pizzas and a gallon of sweet tea.

Sam let out a breath, ready to continue.

"All right, what's up?" He asked, sitting on the end of his bed, hands clasped between his widespread knees.

Castiel thought for a moment, wondering where to begin.

"The being after your brother is known as the Morrigan; she is a vastly dangerous and enormously powerful goddess of battle, strife, and sovereignty." He began, noting the amount of pain that Christopher was in.

He would have liked to be able to heal him, but, alas, he could not. Not with his grace as it was.

He continued on, doing his best to ignore the niggling feeling.

"She has her sights on your brother, and Crowley has his sights on her." Castiel told him, and Sam nodded, thinking that it was about time things got more difficult.

"Great. So, what does that mean, exactly? How do we vanquish her?" Sam asked in a mildly defeated tone.

"I... don't know." Castiel admitted, feeling useless. “I have already tried to find more information on her, but there’s practically nothing.”

"I don't really know, but I do know someone who probably does." Christopher piped up.

Sam raised his brows. "Who?" He asked curiously, wondering if Christopher was thinking of bringing in another hunter to help.

"Oh, nobody you know. Just my wonderful wife, Cindy, who is a voodoo priestess." Christopher half bragged.

"Voodoo priestess?" Sam asked, alarm bells going off.

He and Dean had dealt with their fair share of those, and none of them had been trustworthy in the least.

"Yeah, I think I'll pass on that." Sam told Christopher decidedly.

Castiel watched them, the wheels in his mind turning.

"Does she have any experience with Irish gods?" He inquired, squinting slightly.

Sam's mouth dropped open, not believing his ears.

"Cas, come on." He stated objectively, as Castiel gave a slight shrug.

"We have to do something, and his idea is as good as any." Castiel told him, and Sam looked unhappy. “Besides, it isn’t completely unheard of for mortals to have consorted with gods. It is possible that this Cindy could be a source of reliable information.”

Sam thought that the last thing they needed to deal with was a voodoo priestess on top of everything else, but with being the only one who had an issue with it, he was voted down.

 

 

After the food had arrived, Christopher grabbed a piece of pizza and called Cindy.

As the phone rang, he took a big bite of pizza, while Sam took an entire box and sat back down on the bed.

Christopher stuffed the wad of half masticated food into his cheek and spoke around it, "Hey, Cin. Looks like I need your expertise on something."

"What's up?" She asked, as he hastily chewed and swallowed his mouthful, while Castiel looked on.

"Have you ever heard of a Morrigan?" Christopher asked, taking another bite of pizza.

There was a pause on the other end. "Are you eating?" Cindy asked, sounding a little grossed out that he was talking with his mouth full.

"Yup." He answered, his response slightly muffled. "I haven't eaten today. And I've been slaying monsters all day. A growing boy has to keep his strength up, you know."

"Yeah, well, I can almost feel the crumbs in my ear." Cindy grumbled.

"Well if you're going to be like that..." Christopher said, setting down his slice before taking a large gulp of his tea.

"What was it you said? Morgan?" Cindy asked, getting back on track.

"Uh, yeah. Have you ever heard of a Morrigan?" He asked. "'Cause that's what we're up against here."

"One sec." Came the quick response, and Christopher could hear the computer turning on.

Seeing an opening, he took a quick bite of his pizza.

"Alright," Cindy said, coming back on the line, “The Morrigan, or Phantom Queen, is the goddess of war. She watches over battles in either the form of a crow, wolf or cow. She is arrogant and bloodthirsty... Oh, here it says that she fell in love with a Halfling warrior. His name was... Cu Chulainn. In more modern times, Cú Chulainn is often referred to as the 'Hound of Ulster'. I don't know how useful that is."

"You've got any experience with Irish gods?" Christopher asked hopefully, but all that he got was a laugh from the other end of the line.

"Yes, Honey, I hunt them in my spare time." She teased. "Y'know, between dropping off the kids at school and doing the laundry."

"So how do I kill this bastard?" Christopher asked, and Cindy cleared her throat, not liking the swearing.

"Uh... Sorry, Babe." He apologised.

"Well, I can't really find anything like that, but there is a legend of how Cu Chulainn was able to wound the Morrigan three times with his Gae Bulg, or special spear." Cindy told him, clicking her tongue. "But I would seriously advise against that. The only reasons I can think of her letting Cu Chulainn live after doing that, is A, she was crushing on him, B, he was capable of the riastrad. Riastrad means that he turned into a mega psycho-killer that slayed anything that came near him."

"You said that it was a legend, but if the spear is real, where would it be?" Christopher asked, an idea occurring to him.

"My guess? Ireland." Cindy stated, thinking that that was obvious.

"Can you be any more specific? Like in a museum? A castle?" He asked, looking longingly at his food.

"I don't know, Honey. If the Gae Bulg actually ever existed, it was lost in time." Cindy told him apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"It's OK, Cindy. You gave me some food for thought and I appreciate it." He said. "Love you." He made kissy sounds before going to hang up.

"Wait!" Her voice crackled through the small speaker. "Wait, I have an idea! Don't hang up!"

"What? What's wrong? What's the matter?" He asked, startled.

"Hag stones! Hag stones, if you peer through the hole of the stone that you can see the Fae Folk and otherworldly entities." She said quickly. "Chris, you'll be able to see her through that stone I gave you, maybe the Gae Bulg, too, if you ever had a chance to run across it."

"Hag stones, I thought those were only for protection." He said.

"Both." Cindy answered. "They can do a lot, actually."

There was a rustling sound as she pulled the receiver away from her head. "I gotta go, one of the kids is having a nightmare. Bye. Remember I love you."

"Yeah, love you too." He replied. "Good night, Cindy."

 

As Christopher went on to eat the rest of his meal, Sam waited patiently for him to tell them what he'd just learned.

Christopher didn't say anything, however, neglecting them for his meal.

"So, Crowley? What does he have to do with all of this?" Sam asked inquisitively, taking a sip of sweet tea from his glass.

Castiel looked a touch pained, not wanting to go there.

"As I've already told you, he is interested in the Morrigan." He repeated, wanting that information to be enough for Sam.

"Hey, where's Pouch?" Christopher piped up.

"The animal you are referring to belongs to Crowley now; but, for all intents and purposes, the actual ‘Pouch’ is gone. ‘Bob’, Crowley's hellhound, is in possession of the animal's body." Castiel answered him. "And, it's probably in hell, where it belongs."

Christopher reflected on this for a moment. "So, you're telling me that my dog is possessed?" He asked in an upset tone, trying to wrap his head around the idea of animal possession. "How do we get her back, I mean, one hundred percent back?"

Castiel looked sympathetic.

"I’m sorry, but you don’t. It’s simply not possible." He answered, his brows raising a little. "There is nothing left of the dog you knew, save for the form of the animal."

"What were you doing with a hellhound, anyway?" Sam asked, thinking it very odd.

Castiel gave a minuscule squirm.

"Crowley and I were... Working together very briefly, until he went back on his word." Castiel answered unhappily. "The hellhound was lent to me as per our agreement, in order to aid me in finding the cause of the disturbance; the Morrigan. But, the creature vanished without a trace soon after locating it, and I knew that I'd been double-crossed."

Sam nodded, letting out a breath. "Why does Crowley want the Morrigan, what use is she to him?"

"Crowley seeks her to be his queen, and with her power and beauty, she is his ideal." Castiel responded, not liking the idea of what could happen if Crowley had the Morrigan's strength on his side.

"And, this has what to do with Dean?" Sam asked, raising his hands in the air.

Christopher interrupted again, "I think I have the answer to that." He toyed with the crust of his pizza, feeling extremely uncomfortable. If he was right, than Dean was screwed.

"Apparently, the Morrigan? Yeah, well, she supposedly had the hots for this guy who also had a tendency for psychotic blind rages." He raised his brows at Sam, who pressed his lips into a thin line. "Does that remind you of anyone?"

Sam sighed, feeling a bit helpless.

When it came to what was happening with his brother, nothing that he had done had helped at all. Not really.

And, now, it seemed that despite how much closer they might be to finding an answer, that they were equally as far away from one.

"Anything else?" Sam asked, ignoring this last question, wanting to move along a bit.

"Cindy said something about a gay bulga, or gay bulge or something." Christopher frowned at himself, trying to remember the name. "Anyway, it's some kind of spear that used to be owned by Coo-coo-kachew."

Sam raised his brows, as he powered up his laptop.

"That's a big help, little guy." Sam mumbled, with a shake of his head.

As he typed into a popular search engine, trying to decode the other man's words, Christopher exclaimed indignantly, "Little guy! Little guy! Listen here, Stretch, if I wasn't laid up in bed, I'd show you!"

"What, so you can pass out nicknames like candy on Halloween night, but you get pissy when someone does it to you, huh?" Sam asked with a hint of amusement, as Castiel stepped forward.

"Perhaps we are straying from the subject at hand." He interjected peacefully.

Sam typed a bit more, before basically reiterating what Cindy had said.

"That's what the lady said." Christopher said proudly. "That's what I was tellin' ya."

"No, you were telling us about gay bulges." Sam corrected, reading a bit more.

"No, no, I said it was a spear." Christopher said, getting flustered. "I said nothing about gay bulges."

Castiel gave a slight shake of his head.

"No, Sam's right." He spoke up. "You definitely mentioned a bulge of the homosexual variety."

"NO. I was talkin' about his spear. Not his bulge." Christopher insisted, looking awkward as he eyed the ceiling. "And I would think you knew that. That's gratuity for you."

Sam looked up from the computer screen.

"Hey, come on, don't be like that." Sam replied in a softer tone, trying to convey an apology without actually saying one. "Anyways, trying to pinpoint where Cu Chulainn's spear would be now would be pretty useless... I mean, if it actually does exist, finding it would take too much time."

Castiel looked thoughtful.

"I'll see what I can do. You two keep working on things, and I’ll return when I find news." He said solemnly, and Sam nodded, before the angel disappeared.

"Alright," Christopher said, "there's one other thing that might help us. Cindy said, if we're to look through a hag stone, we may be able to see the Gae Bulg."

Sam turned the corners of his mouth down.

"Not bad, but Cas has already gone, and I doubt that it would work for him anyway." He said, going to the mini fridge at the other end of the room to get some cold water. "But, a hag stone might just work on the Morrigan, let us see what she actually looks like."

"Yep, that's right. And it's your lucky day." He told Sam, stuffing his hand in his pocket, quickly withdrawing a purple silk pouch with a rock tied to it. He untied the rock and thrust the pouch back into his pocket, just as Sam came back.

Sam opened the bottle of water.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam asked, taking a swallow of slightly too cold water.

"Yeah. See? I got a hag stone right here." Christopher held it up so that the younger man could see.

"I haven't seen one of those since I was a kid." Sam told him, looking at the smooth gray stone, old memories of a time long past resurfacing in his mind.

He took out his phone, feeling the need to call his brother again, knowing that it would be useless.

There was nothing to be done for now, except wait.

 

 

Hell was cold, but had yet to actually freeze over.

Crowley sat on the step in front of his throne, ruffling Bob's ears. "Who's a good boy?" He murmured, sticking his bottom lip out slightly. "Who's a lovely hellhound? It's you! Yes, yes, you're a good boy!"

The hellhound wagged Pouch's tail happily as it got its throat scratched under the collar.

"Now, I just need you to find one more thing for Daddy." Crowley said softly, kissing the top of the dog's head. "I need the Gae Bulg. It's under a fence in Corratanvally, and I need it now, Bob." With that, Crowley patted Bob on the side firmly.

Crowley leaned back when the dog disappeared, and he got to his feet, rubbing his hands.

He walked to the door, giving his head a small scratch before opening the door and peering out at the guard. "Send in the next complaint." He ordered in a low voice, before slamming the door shut again.

 

 

After some in-depth searching, Castiel at last found the location of the Gae Bulg in Corratanvally.

The only problem was that someone, or rather, something, had reached it before he had.

Bob was digging at the base of a very large stone that was a part of the rock wall, working away tirelessly in order to get to the object.

Castiel formed a plan in his mind, and made his way over.

He would have no element of surprise, as there was no possible way that Bob had not sensed him.

As if to prove this, Bob looked over his shoulder, pink tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, appearing deceivingly happy to see the angel.

Castiel didn't want to kill Bob if he didn't have to.

Crowley was difficult enough to deal with, but having him try and wreak vengeance for slaughtering his pet would be much worse.

"Back away." He ordered the dog, which looked frightfully adorable.

The hellhound barked once, and dug even faster, ignoring his guest.

Castiel tossed the animal away from the freshly dug hole with his abilities, the animal sailing through the air and landing heavily four and a half feet away.

He was prepared for the animal to rush him, a hand on his blade.

Bob got to his feet and let loose a terrible howl that shook the leaves from the trees. He took three steps towards Castiel, each paw print becoming a pit of burning purple flames.

Castiel stayed his ground, waiting for it to make its move.

The dog shimmered, its image splitting into two, then four, until there were over a dozen replicas of Bob.

Castiel took out an eight inch white and gold silk sachet of salt, enough to help determine the real Bob.

He opened it, and brought out a large pinch, throwing it on the nearest illusion.

Out of the crowd of false images, a gaseous ball of fire shot out and was aimed straight at Castiel.

Castiel aimed his knife, throwing it straight at the chest of the real dog.

Bob, dodging to the right, and feinting a forward attack on the other being, before circling back and grabbing the knife in its teeth.

Castiel retrieved a secondary knife from the inside of his trench coat, moving towards the vicious creature, his blade hand steady.

Bob growled low in his throat, bringing forth such an unholy sound, hot bursts of hellfire escaping his mouth, wilting the blade in his teeth. He dropped the ruined knife, his mouth still sizzling from the contact.

Once they were close enough, Castiel slashed out, aiming for the throat.

He missed, pulling back his arm just in time to keep from having his hand ripped off by incredibly strong jaws.

Bob moved sideways, circling, his jaws snapping like cymbals as he lunged and backed away in a rhythmic, deadly dance.

Threads of dirty drool pooled from the dog's flews as he snarled, whined and growled.

Castiel began orbing in and out around the dog, throwing it off guard, before stabbing it in the chest with a good deal of force.

Bob's essence flickered, but with the last of his strength, the hellhound lunged forward, crushing Castiel's forearm in his powerful jaws, ripping a large chunk of flesh from the angel.

A final whimper escaped Bob, before he fell lifelessly to the ground.

Castiel opened the dog's jaws with his left hand, freeing his right arm.

There was a fair amount of blood, and he was a bit woozy.

He had been using his powers too often, and with his fading grace, he was getting into trouble again.

He could either get the Gae Bulg and zap back to the motel, or heal himself.

Obviously, he chose to do the former.

 

 

Back at the motel, over a large package of sour belts and spriolas, the boys were getting to know each other better. Christopher had just started to explain how he knew John Winchester, when Castiel popped up by the mini-fridge.

The angel was grungy and bloody, and he was weaving a little on the spot.

The bite from the hellhound would not be easy to heal; such wounds are rarely harmless in the end, and a human would never survive such suffering.

Castiel slumped into a nearby wooden chair.

On the way, he accidentally knocked over the lamp, which crashed to the floor and shattered.

He had the spear, which was nearly a foot taller than himself, which he had clutched in his good hand.

The spear was caked in mud, but still in astounding condition for its age.

Sam rushed over to the angel, looking very worried.

"What happened?" He asked in concern, his brow wrinkled.

Castiel gave a very brief explanation, before closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall, thoroughly drained.

Sam took the spear, looking over the item in speculation, before passing it to Christopher.

Sam then took a better look at the wound in his friend's arm.

It was quite visible through the hole in the jacket and shirt beneath, and it was very deep.

Sam set about cleaning it the best he could, after taking off Castiel's trench coat and cutting the sleeve of the shirt off.

Sam bandaged the area with gauze and tape.

He then helped Castiel to his bed, laying him down to rest.

Christopher started cleaning the centuries of mud off of the spear, plucking the clumps off and letting them fall to the floor.

He admired the craftsmanship, as he checked with his fingertip to test how sharp it was after all this time. It was sharp. A bead of blood dotted the tip of the spear as proof.

"Yep, it's sharp." He said to himself.

"Seriously?" Sam asked incredulously, his voice quiet so as not to disturb Castiel.

"What?" Christopher asked, studiously polishing the Gae Bulg and examining his injuries.

Sam shook his head.

"Nothing." He lied, reaching over for his bottle of effervescent drink. "So, what do you make of it?" He asked, indicating the spear with his chin as he sat on the edge of Christopher's bed.

"It's got yer curlicues, Celtic knots and runes. Ya'd think being in the muck and such for so long, there'd be rust." He said, offering the spear to Sam. "Take a look, there's not a spot of it on the gay bulge."

Sam ignored the faux pas.

"And, what do you think that means?" He asked, not thinking it to be that big of a deal.

If Castiel brought the spear and said it was the Gae Bulg, then that's what it was.

All the time that Sam was examining the spear, Christopher was watching Castiel, wondering if they shouldn't take the poor guy to the hospital.

Placing his hand on Sam's wrist, he spoke in a concerned manner, "Shouldn't we get your buddy to a doctor?"

Sam frowned, looking over to Castiel.

"It wouldn't do any good; he's been bitten by a hellhound." Sam reminded him. "He's lucky to have survived at all. There's not exactly treatment for this kind of thing."

"Right." Christopher said, saddened by the fact that he could do nothing to ease the pain.

"Just off the cuff, but have you thought about GPS to find your brother?" Christopher asked suddenly. "I mean, all these phone have them, right?"

Sam considered this.

He hadn't checked Dean's GPS, because, frankly, he'd figured that Dean would've done as in the past and removed it.

Still, it was worth a last ditch effort.

"True." He acknowledged, before starting up his laptop and giving it a try.

 

Within ten minutes, he was stunned to see a result.

"Uh, yeah..." Sam said, his eyes wide as he stared at the screen. "He's in Canada."

Sam shook his head. "Never would've guessed that." He admitted, recalling some of Dean’s past comments regarding the country.

"Should we leave a note for Castiel?" Christopher asked, getting up and reaching over to the nightstand where his jacket was.

"Uh, I don't think you should be getting up." Sam told him, tilting his head to the side. "Look, I'll go after him, and you can stay here and keep an eye on Cas. I'm going to need you as my remote backup, okay?" He suggested.

Christopher looked displeased to hear this. "Remote backup, eh?" He said with an edge to his voice as he sucked air through his teeth.

"It's not like you're going to be of any real use if you come along." Sam told him, trying to be to the point without completely wounding the man's pride. "Sorry, but it's true. You'll be able to help us much more if you stay here. Besides, we can't leave Cas alone like that."

Sam reached for the spear, looking it over once more, hoping that it would do the trick.

Christopher reluctantly agreed with Sam. "Y'know what, Sam? You're right. Someone has to stay here." He said, and Sam turned to go. "But you know what, Stretch? You're a lot like your old man. You're an asshole."

Sam blinked, not sure what to make of this, the words hitting harder than he would've thought.

"Uh, okay?" He said in a mixed tone, before leaving without another word, his jaw set.

 

 

Sam walked out into the parking lot, continuing down the street until a vehicle caught his eye.

A large red Harley-Davidson, with black smoke detailing.

He admired it for a moment, the chrome glimmering beautifully beneath the streetlamp.

The 1955 Harley Davidson Panhead was definitely his choice for a new ride.

He swiftly hotwired it, and after filling up the tank, he headed off to Windsor.

 

 

It didn't take too long to get there, finding Dean's location within the time it takes to deliver a pizza.

Sam stood on the shore of Lake Saint Clair, at the Lakeview Park Marina, where Dean was secluded in a rather large and exorbitant houseboat around a mile out on the water.

Sam left the bike beneath a tall oak tree, and looked around at his options.

He could swim across, or hotwire a boat.

The only problem was that there was only one other boat in sight, and while it was easily accessible, it was occupied.

Sam shrugged, and came up with an idea.

He went over to the boat, where a rotund shirtless man sat on the deck reading an old comic book and sipping at a banana daiquiri.

"Hey, I'm really sorry to bother you." He began, making his eyes look very sad. "But, I was wondering if I could borrow your boat."

The man scoffed. "And, why would I lend a stranger my boat?" He asked in a rude tone, slurring his words.

"Well, see, the thing is, I've travelled all the way from the States just to find the love of my life who ran off, and she's in that boat out there with my best friend... If I could just borrow your cruiser, maybe, just maybe, there's a chance I could win her back..." Sam replied, letting a tear slip down his cheek as he looked pathetic and dejected.

The man sniffed, his eyes misting over.

"I... Uh... Well, anything for love." He said, beginning to blubber.

"I'll just need the keys." Sam pointed out, giving him a sad smile.

"Oh, yeah, of course. In the ignition." The man said, wiping snot from his nose with the back of his hand.

He got off the boat with some difficulty taking the pitcher of daiquiris. "I'll give you some privacy." The man told him, remembering the time that his wife had run off with another man.

If only someone had helped him back then, maybe he wouldn't be depressed and alone now.

"Thanks." Sam told him, coming aboard with ease due to his long legs.

He immediately went over to the steering mechanism, and started the boat, maneuvering over to the other boat.

He could see two figures through the curtained area below deck.

Sam shut off the engine, and drifted directly beside, hopping aboard stealthily.

He picked up the spear that he'd slid onto the boat, making his way below, keeping an ear out for any sound.

There was a sound to Sam's right, which was like a blade being drawn against metal.

Sam jerked his head towards the sound, peering into the kitchen.

Dean stood in front of the counter, wearing only a pair of Ghostbusters patterned boxers and a white undershirt, making a very meaty sandwich.

Sam didn't want to give himself away just yet, knowing there was another on board, so he waited in the shadows.

Dean poked his head out around the doorway, and grinned at his baby brother, offering him half the sandwich. "Hi!" He said enthusiastically.

Sam was immediately thrown by just how... jovial Dean was being.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked, feeling very uncomfortable with the peculiar cheer emanating from his brother.

Realizing that Sam wasn't going to take the sandwich, Dean leaned against the door-frame and crossed his ankles, before tucking in.

"I fell in love, and now I'm eating on a yacht." He said, his brows furrowing momentarily before he started smiling again. "How the freakin' hell did you find me?"

"I think the bigger question is how you got rid of the mark." Sam shot back, staring at Dean's right inner forearm. "Not to mention why the hell you went AWOL like that."

Dean glanced casually at his arm, noting with some satisfaction that the mark was indeed gone.

"Maybe it's because I'm happy." He offered with a shrug. "I mean, it's not like I had too much to be happy about since I got it, right?"

Sam shook his head.

"Nah, I really don't think happiness cured you. And, I doubt you actually believe that, either." Sam replied, not liking this at all.

Dean stiffened slightly, his content demenour fading slightly at the edges. "Why not?" He asked in a tone that was this side of both pleading and demanding. "Just this once, why not, Sammy? Why can't it be a happy ending for me, and my happiness is enough to make it all better?"

Sam opened his mouth, before closing it once more, unsure of what to say.

"Look, I know you're feeling pretty good right now, but that's not going to last. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into." Sam stated. "I need you to listen to me, here."

Dean sighed and put his hands on Sam's shoulders before walking past him.

"I think Chris had it right; quit while you're still sane." He pointed at his brother's chest. "That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to settle down with Raven, and I'm going to leave the whole hunting thing as far behind me as possible."

He started to walk away before pausing and turning back. "Look, Sam, I don't care what got me into this. I'm staying."

"Dean, she's the Morrigan; do you even know what that means? Not just for you, but everyone?" Sam asked, getting annoyed. "This isn't you. You'd never be this stupid, or this selfish."

He took a few steps toward his brother.

"And, I'll fight you if I have to, Dean. I don't want to, but I will." He vowed.

The muscle in Dean's jaw jumped and he clenched his fist before releasing it.

"Selfish?" He asked in a low voice. "Selfish? I want, just this one thing, one thing in the whole, screwed up world, and that's being selfish?" He shook his head at Sam. "I'm not fighting you, but I'm not doing this anymore, either. Go away. I'm done."

Sam swallowed.

"Selfish, yeah, that's right. Because, this is going to end up destroying everything; you, me, the world. And, all because you're under her spell." He explained. "There's only one way to keep that from happening, and I need you on my team, Dean. Where you belong, where you always have belonged."

Dean rubbed his forehead. "The world, huh?" He asked, smiling, but it looked more like a grimace. "How many times have we 'saved the world'?" He looked like he wanted to laugh, but he leaned on the railing instead. "Look, I'm under some spell? Fine. There's no mark, there's no anger, there's no..." He looked at the deck and wiggled his toes. "There's no pain anymore."

Sam took a breath.

Obviously, Dean was not going to see things his way.

"All right. If you're really that happy, fine. But, I want to meet her." Sam said, his hand closing around the hag stone in his pocket. "See the woman you abandoned everything for, including your own brother."

He reached out, putting a hand on Dean's upper arm.

"How about it?" He asked, his tone softer.

Dean crossed his arms, and eyed Sam suspiciously. "Let me take the spear." He said, figuring that it would be best if Sam didn't come too close to Raven with it.

"Or, we could leave it here." Sam suggested, leaning it against the wall. "I'm not going to hurt her, okay? I just want to meet the girl that stole my big brother's heart."

Dean relented and slapped Sam on the shoulder, pointing him in the right direction. "You're going to love her!" He beamed.

 

 

The antechamber was brightly light by a Champagne chandelier, highlighting the Oriental carpets and the Royal George furniture.

Dean gestured for Sam to stay by the spindly sofa, before jogging into the darkened room beyond. Quickly throwing on his clothes.

There was the sound of hushed whispering, before the happy couple came out to greet Sam.

He had to admit, she was gorgeous. At least, under her illusions she appeared to be.

"Wow." Sam said, feigning complete awe quite well. "So, you're Raven."

She giggled and smiled, her creamy white skin now tinted with raspberry tones.

"I am." She said, offering her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Samuel."

Sam cringed at hearing his full first name, which he hated.

"Nice to meet you." He returned politely, taking her hand and shaking it. "How'd you two meet, anyway?"

"Oh, you know how it is; boy meets girl, girl meets boy..." She cocked her head to the side. "Are you coming to the wedding?"

Sam looked over to his brother.

"Am I invited?" He asked warily.

Dean smiled. "Yeah, of course you can come, you're my brother!" But in his eyes there was a small warning, stating that if Sam was going to continue to try and cause trouble, Dean wasn't going to take too kindly to it.

Sam faked a big smile. "Great! Then, yeah, I'll be there." He replied enthusiastically, throwing his arms in the air carelessly.

Dean sighed, looking more relieved. He knew it was a fake smile, but if only Sammy could be happy for him...

"Look, I'm glad you're happy." Sam said honestly, wishing that Dean could stay that way, but knowing that it would have to end. "It's just really weird seeing you like this."

Dean looked at the two of them, his heart swelling with the thought that his family was getting bigger.

"Hey, I'm going to get us a couple beers to celebrate, 'k?" He said, kissing Raven's cheek and patting Sam on the chest.

Sam slugged him back playfully. "Sounds good, I'll come along. I could use that half a sandwich now, if the offer's still good."

He smiled at Raven, trying to keep the act realistic without going over the top.

Once they were outside, Dean turned to his brother. "Y'know, Sam? Maybe you should quit hunting too." He said with a nod as they went down the side of the boat. "Yeah, go back and become a lawyer." He smiled and gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze. "See, we can still help people, just... not in the same way. At least that's what I figure."

Sam gave a bit of a dry laugh.

"Way back when I would've agreed with you. But, it's too late for me to back out now. This is my life, Dean, and I wouldn't give it up for anyone." Sam said, leaning against the counter.

He reached over to a tin of black olives and took it, popping a few into his mouth.

Dean paused, drinks in hand. "I guess we won't be seeing much of each other then, huh?" He asked, his tone somber.

"I could always ease off a bit, but I'd probably never completely give it up." He replied, setting the now half empty tin back down. He shoved his uninjured hand into his pocket. "Here, I've got an early wedding gift for you."

He passed the stone to Dean, who held it up to the light. "Seriously?" He asked, turning it over in his hands. "I haven't seen one of these since we were little." He pointed at Sam. "You remember that crazy old woman who was selling them by the road?"

Sam nodded.

"Yeah, and I wanted one so badly, even though you thought they were rubbish." Sam laughed, recalling that summer. "This is the one you got me all those years ago. I've kept it."

Dean looked at the stone long and hard, before giving Sam a hug. "Oh, man... this is so weird." He admitted, passing his brother a beer.

"I know, right?" He agreed. "Those things really do work, you know." Sam opened the glass bottle of beer, the cap flying off and skittering on the floor beneath the fridge.

The stone was tossed up in the air, and Dean caught it. "That would have been really helpful when we were up against those fairies." He remarked.

Sam nodded.

"I'm giving it to you because as a human, you can't see Raven's true form, her true beauty, and that's a shame. You should know what your bride to be really looks like." Sam told him sincerely, looking into Dean's eyes. "Something this important, you've got to do things right, don't you?"

Dean shook his head. "’True beauty’? Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" He asked ruefully. "Ten minutes ago you were telling me that she was a witch, and now you say you're happy for me and you want me to look through the stone."

He picked up the two bottles again. "I look through it; then what, Sam? She's a monster? At this point I'm not so sure I care anymore." Because I know I'm one too, he thought to himself.

"That was before I met her." Sam pointed out. "She really does seem nice, and after the initial shock of seeing you so happy, I like what she's brought out in you." He smoothed his hair, which was a nervous tic of his. "I gave you the stone, because if you're going to marry her, you might as well see what she really looks like. Monster or not, she's been good to you, and if you're happy together, than I'm happy for you."

Sam sighed.

"It's about time you were content in your life, even if it is under kind of weird circumstances." He said. "You do whatever you want to. I'm not going to stand in your way."

Dean thought for a moment before nodding seriously.

"Fine." He gave his head a jerk. "Let's go back."

 

 

Just before stepping into the anteroom, Dean moved the bottles to the same hand.

"We're back." He announced before holding the hag stone to his eye, just as Raven turned to greet them.

What he saw was an ungodly mash of eels, crows, wolves, cattle and women, all of that horrid sight surrounded by a multi-coloured aura that held scorching purples, blues and greens. Dean quickly dropped his hand from his face, hating himself for looking.

"I'm sorry." Sam told him quietly, going to get the spear before she reacted.

"I dwell in darkness without you." She said, coming closer, her eyes wide as she reached out for him. "Please don't leave me."

Dean was rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do, how he was supposed to act.

"Like you, I long to be loved." She continued, running her finger down the curve of his cheek.

Dean closed his eyes and held his breath. Oh, why did this hurt so much?

He took her hand and held it in his. "How did you get the mark off me?" He asked, clearing his throat.

Sam returned, spear in hand.

"Dean." He called, tossing the spear to his brother, before being hurled out into the water by the Morrigan, leaving him sputtering.

The door slammed shut and locked itself.

"It's a testament of my love for you." She said, her eyes filled with tears as she took in the sight of the Gae Bulg.

"I will do anything for you... you're my new Cu Chulainn."

Dean blinked slowly, the name sounding familiar. "What?" He asked, feeling like his head was in a fog.

"You are my Cu Chulainn." She said, hugging him. "My love, I missed you so much. I'll never let you leave me again."

Dean took a step back, his brow wrinkled. "Wait, so, I'm just a replacement for some other guy?" He looked at the room. "That's all this was? That's all there is to it?"

"What you're saying is vulgar." Raven told him, offended. "You are not a replacement. Simply a reincarnation. And you are mine."

While this was happening, Sam had made his way back onto the boat, completely soggy and very cold.

He found the door to the anteroom locked, and he tried to kick it down, as Dean felt desperation and anger rise in his chest.

"Look, I'm not anyone but me, and I'm pretty sure that if reincarnation existed, I would have been recycled a hell of a lot of times by now." He told her. "I'm not Cu Chulainn."

Sam broke the door down, vocally encouraging Dean to use the Gae Bulg.

"Would I really have awoken after a millennia if you weren't really, truly Cu Chulainn? My one and only true love?"

"Except that your true love wouldn't have attempted murdering you." Sam cut in, shivering a bit on the spot.

Raven turned on him. "HE WOULD NEVER ADMIT THAT HE LOVED ME!!" She screamed. "I TRIED, AND BEGGED BUT HE WOULDN'T SUBMIT!"

Sam stood his ground. "Okay, see, that's not love; that's emotional abuse in a nutshell." He told her, crossing his arms.

Raven couldn't stand him anymore and tried to take the spear from Dean so that she could impale Sam on its barbed shaft.

Dean grabbed the Gae Bulg with both hands and pulled back on it, yelling to Sam to run, but the Morrigan pulled on the spear with a sharp tug, sending the head into her stomach.

Immediately letting go, Dean, leaned down on his knees, helping Raven to lie on the floor.

Sam grabbed Dean, holding tightly onto him and dragging him away from the scene with some difficulty.

Dean was not exactly willing to go, and even with the extra height, Sam was finding it a challenge to get him out of there.

Still, he somehow did manage to get Dean onto the borrowed boat, and Sam noticed its owner just sitting on the beach watching them peacefully, still drinking.

Dean turned back to the yacht only to see a big, black eel wriggle to the railing and fall into the dark water.

Dean sighed, placing his hands on the rails of the borrowed boat, his head bent low in sorrow.

Sam gave him a few moments, driving them ashore, and waiting until they were on solid ground, before embracing his brother in a gigantic bear hug.

"Come on, let's go home." Sam said gently, hating to have destroyed what had likely been the only happiness that Dean had ever truly experienced.

Dean put some distance between the two of them. "Do me a favour, 'k? Don't talk to me for a while." He said, walking away.

Sam nodded, grabbing the bike and walking it behind Dean, thanking the now excessively drunk boater on the way.

 

 

At Lilly Kazzilly's Crab Shack & Grill, Dean put his head in his hands, ignoring his plate of food. He didn't feel hungry; he didn't feel like anything, except for maybe breaking Sam's jaw.

He sighed long and hard before glancing up his sleeve and noticing that everything was back to the way it was.

"Anything else?" Asked the ancient waitress, and Dean shook his head, before nodding. "Yeah, could I get this wrapped up to go, please?" He asked, and she said yes.

Outside in the parking lot, Sam looked cold, wet and miserable. Dean saw that Sam's hair was even messy.

He thrust the smaller bag into Sam's hands before stuffing the larger one's handle into his own mouth. Dean pulled off his plaid shirt and put it over Sam's shoulders.

"Well, if you weren't a giant, it would fit you better, but it's what we got." He mumbled, avoiding looking at the other man.

Sam looked a bit sheepish, thanking his brother for his efforts.

He stood up from the curb stone in front of the bike, his hand feeling very sore, as he opened the bag and was pleased to find fries and a salad.

He promptly shoved a few golden fries in his mouth, feeling very hungry, before offering some to his brother.

"Huh... There's a packet of mayo in there." Sam stated curiously, wondering why it would be in there.

After all, the salad already had dressing, and who in their right minds would dip fries in mayonnaise?

"I'm guessing it's for the fries." Dean said disinterestedly, feeling half dead. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to make nice.

Sam crumpled the top of the bag down, having eaten most of the fries and deciding to wait for the rest of his meal.

"Hop on, we can crash at a motel and head back tomorrow." Sam told his brother, getting on the bike and scooching up to make room in the back.

Dean watched him for a moment. "There's not enough ways to say no." He declared, turning on his heel. "I'll find my own way back."

Sam scoffed.

"Are you kidding? This is a classic Harley, how can you turn that down?" He asked, starting the bike.

"Well, maybe if I was driving..." Dean swallowed, stuffing his hands in his pockets, his bagged food under his arm. "I'm not riding, hanging off of you like some girl."

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Fine." He yielded, as he often did. "You drive."

Sam got off of the bike with slight hesitance, gesturing for Dean to get on.

Dean plunked himself down, wishing that the night was over.

Sam climbed on the back, feeling awkward, when a thought crept into his mind.

"You do know how to drive one of these, don't you?" He asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

Dean looked straight ahead. "We'll see." He answered.

 

 

Dean had chosen to drive back to Detroit, back to the motel, where Castiel lay in considerable pain.

Christopher had left to pick up a few things at the Toasted Cow, leaving the angel alone.

Sam let his brother and himself in, and Sam went straight over to get Dean a bottle of water.

"Here, hydrate." Sam told him, passing him the container.

"Yay." Dean said, rolling the bottle underneath the rickety table, before straightening up and giving Sam a stern look.

Sam withered under his gaze for a few minutes, before not being able to take anymore and leaving the room to get some fresh air.

 

Christopher hobbled up the path towards Sam, not looking the younger man in the eye.

He limped past and into the suite, before setting the bag down on the empty bed.

Christopher went back over to where Sam stood outside. "Sam, I'm the asshole, not you." He said apologetically. "I just want to get that out there. I was stinging from not being able to do the job and I was in a lot of pain. That doesn't excuse it, but... there it is. You're actually a good guy. I just got back from the Toasted Cow, so why don't you come back inside, and we'll see what's in the bag?"

Sam sighed deeply.

"No, you were right; I am like my father." Sam said, brushing off the apology, before turning to go back in.

 

 

"What happened to Cas?" Dean asked, touching his friend's foot through the blanket. It felt like Castiel still had his shoes on.

"He was bitten by a hellhound getting that spear." Sam answered, realising that he had, in fact, left Castiel's shoes on.

He felt kind of bad about it.

Castiel looked even worse than before, and Sam was worried.

Dean felt the guilt in his chest grow heavier as he touched Castiel's side. At least the angel was still breathing.

"It's not your fault, Dean." Sam intoned softly, knowing how badly he must be feeling.

Dean ignored him, focusing on Christopher instead.

Christopher pulled out a big box of crispy fried beef tips, a big, ten inch, deep-dish raspberry pecan pie, and a six-pack of beer. In the very bottom, a big and lusty nudie mag.

Sam acknowledged this mildly, sitting down in the uncomfortable wooden chair and closing his eyes, preparing to fall asleep.

"Pie." Was all Dean said, eyeing the cardboard box.

As Christopher was handing the box over to him, Christopher said, smiling, "You look like Chief Boden."

Dean sat on the edge of Cas' bed, opening the box. "Who's he?" He asked automatically, sniffing the dessert.

"Chief at my firehouse from my watch." Christopher told him, as Dean pulled out a big, silver knife. "Should come by sometime."

Dean shrugged, slicing the pie into quarters, passing a portion to Christopher, taking one for himself, and putting the remains next to Sam's elbow.

"Yeah, sure. Never seen a firehouse before." Dean mumbled, taking a bite of the pie.

Christopher pulled out his phone and showed a picture of Boden from when they were at the fireman's ball.

"No." Dean shook his head in disagreement, as Castiel awoke.

"Hello, Dean." He greeted weakly, trying to sit up and failing.

Dean glanced at him, before reaching over for the pie. "Morning, sunshine." He said, handing a piece of pie to Castiel.

Eating was very difficult, but to appease Dean, he struggled through it.

Sam, who had fallen asleep, let out a long snore and shifted, nearly spilling out onto the floor.

 

 

The airport was quiet, few people milling around the luggage turnstile.

"Almost hate to see you go." Dean said, offering his hand to the firefighter.

Christopher pulled out his phone and showed Boden to Sam, whose mouth dropped open.

"Did you mess with Dean's photo, or something?" He asked, taking the phone and scrutinizing the picture.

"Why and how would I mess with Dean's photo?" Christopher asked, frowning with raised eyebrows.

Dean snatched the phone. "It doesn't look like me at all." He said, giving Boden one last look.

The first call for Christopher's flight went out over the speakers.

Christopher took his phone back, and snapped a picture of Dean, then of Sam.

Sam passed a piece of paper to Christopher, an e-mail address hastily scrawled on it.

"Well, you two take care, I'm off." Christopher said, giving a last wave, before heading towards the gate, faintly hearing Sam say to Dean, "It really does look like you."

 

 

A few weeks later, Herrmann was back on shift, his leg almost completely back to normal.

As he walked in through the open garage door, he saw Mills headed straight for him.

"Hey! Herrmann, you're back already?" Mills said in greeting, a big grin on his face.

"Yep." Herrmann said, noticing Otis in the back, holding up a folded newspaper and trying to get Herrmann's attention.

"Well, gotta go, see ya around, kid." Herrmann said, clapping Mills on the shoulder before going to see what was up.

Mills smiled as he went on his own way, his eyes flashing black.

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing included within this work was intended to offend anyone. It is meant purely for enjoyment, and not to be taken seriously.
> 
> This story was written not only by myself but two of my friends as well, as a group effort.
> 
> We love feedback as it helps us know what you like and don't like. It also lets us learn where/what we need to work on as writers


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